


newmann prompt fills

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Engagement, Established Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Honeymoon, Lab Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Massages, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Dancing, Time Travel, Uprising Don't Interact (Unless Stated Otherwise), Wet Dream, apologies for the approximate million tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-06-05 00:23:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 195
Words: 181,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15158402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: collection of different newmann drabbles/one-shots i've filled prompts with over on tumblr!(rating + prompt + summary at the beginning of each chap)





	1. honeymoon sex (nsfw)

**Author's Note:**

> gambriz asked:  
> 8 + newmann for the prompt thing!
> 
> 8: honeymoon sex! prob rated a light M
> 
>  
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/174806415258/8-newmann-for-the-prompt-thing)

“I told you to wear more sunblock,” Hermann chastises as he rubs aloe gingerly onto Newt’s bare back, an angry red that’s visible even through his tattoos. It doesn’t matter how gently he does it–Newt still flinches away at each touch, grumbling and swearing under his breath. Hermann presses a kiss against the nape of Newt’s neck in apology and Newt eases up somewhat, leaning back into him. “Now look at you.”

“Shut up,” Newt groans. “Goddamn, that’s cold.”

“If you’d stop  _fidgeting_  we could get this over with quickly,” Hermann says. Newt obliges, and Hermann smooths the rest of it across his skin with no more complaints and a good deal more kisses to his neck. “There,” he announces, wiping his hands off on Newt’s spare beach towel and tossing it to the floor. “Was that so hard?”

Newt immediately turns and kisses him. “You’re the best husband ever,“ he says, a touch sarcastically, and starts plucking at the buttons of Hermann’s striped linen shirt. Hermann lets Newt slide it off his shoulders and onto the bunched up comforter at the foot of the bed, where Newt’s own shirt lays, without complaint. “You know, seeing you in short sleeves every day is like a weird wet dream.” He kisses Hermann again, nipping at his bottom lip.

Hermann smiles. “Mm. One you approve of?”

“Oh, enthusiastically,” Newt says, kissing Hermann again, and then tries to fall back against the bed and pull Hermann down on top of him. Hermann doesn’t budge.

“Wait,” he says, but Newt’s running his hands up Hermann’s sides and sucking on his neck in a way that’s very making it very hard for Hermann to string together coherent thoughts, let alone sentences. “Wait, you’ll–ah–get the sheets dirty.”

“Who  _cares_ ,” Newt sighs, nuzzling against him. “It’s just aloe, dude. We’re gonna get them a lot dirtier in a few seconds anyway.” He punctuates his sentence with another little nip, this time at Hermann’s throat, and starts rubbing circles into the skin at Hermann’s lower back.

“It’s messy,” Hermann protests weakly.

Newt huffs before flipping their positions with surprising gracefulness. He straddles Hermann’s waist and bends down to resume kissing his neck, and Hermann hums happily. “Problem solved,” Newt says, and gives a languid downward roll of his hips. “You’ll just have to keep your hands off my hot bod. If you can manage.”

“How  _innovative_  of you,” Hermann says, and tangles his fingers in Newt’s saltwater-thickened hair. “Now do that again.”


	2. exploring each other's bodies (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Oooooo 24 bet
> 
> 24: exploring each other's bodies  
> post-we-just-saved-the-world first time! rated light M
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/174837709658/oooooo-24-bet)

The ten minutes after the world doesn’t end is a whirlwind. Hermann wastes no time in getting Newt out of Loccent under the pretense of wanting to talk to him in private, and then pushes him up against a wall and starts kissing him from within an inch of his life the second they’re out of sight. Newt kisses back, obviously, and it’s a spectacular and magnificent end to five (for Newt, at least, twelve) years of pining and tension, really going out with a bang (ha!) and opening a new door and all that. And then Hermann starts veritably groping him and pulling off his clothing and Newt (filthy shirt completely unbuttoned, Hermann’s sweater off and clenched in one of his fists) thinks they probably should move this to one of their rooms, and Hermann’s is closest so they go there. They don’t slow down when they get inside and Hermann pushes him against his door instead, or when he latches onto Newt’s neck and makes Newt moan helplessly, or when they shed more and more clothing until they’re touching skin on skin and Newt thinks he might pass out.

Ironically, they slow down the second they hit Hermann’s bed.

They’re both nude, lying on their sides facing each other with a small gap between them. It’s almost comical how shy they both are. Every time Newt goes to kiss Hermann again, or touch him, or even just fit their bodies together, his nerves fail him. Hermann seems to be having the same problem.

Newt’s just wanted this for ages, you know? And Hermann is so nice to look at, and his skin is so smooth, and his hair is mussed from kissing and there’s a blush staining his high cheeks. Newt wants to go fast and forget everything that isn’t Hermann, but he also wants to take it slow and feel everything. Hermann’s the one to finally break the awkwardness by reaching out and resting a hand on the side of Newt’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his thumb along Newt’s jaw, so softly. “I confess I’m a little nervous.”

Newt laughs with relief. “No, dude, it’s okay,” he says. “I am too.”

Hermann lets go of Newt’s jaw and drags his fingers down his chest instead, circling the kaiju inked there, and then back up. “Your freckles go down further,” he says, tracing lines between freckles by Newt’s collarbone with his fingertip. Like connect-the-dot. Newt, though he’d never admit it aloud, has always liked the way Hermann can find patterns in everything. “I always wondered.” He doesn’t say anything about the blush that’s spreading further down Newt’s chest, too, that only deepens when he brushes just shy of one of Newt’s nipples.

Newt squeezes one of Hermann’s biceps. “And you’re secretly built as hell,” he says, because it’s true–Hermann’s got some super hot muscles there, and it’s a damn shame he’s spent all these years hiding them under layers of poorly-fitting blazers instead of flaunting them for Newt’s viewing pleasure. There’s some sparse, lighter brown hair on his arms as well, the same kind that trails down below his belly button, to–Newt pulls his eyes away with some difficulty. Hermann’s lips quirk up. He brushes Newt’s hair back and kisses him, sweet and chaste, and Newt chases him and deepens it.

He touches Hermann’s hip tentatively; Hermann settles his hand on the back of Newt’s thigh in response, then pulls back and presses their foreheads together. “Newton,” he murmurs. His eyes are dark, pupils wide, but there’s a red ring around one that matches Newt’s. Newt can’t help but think it’s romantic, in a weird way. Perfectly in-character for them.


	3. engagement sex (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeffreycombs asked:  
> 7
> 
> 7: engagement sex! rated E
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/174855945478/7)

“How many people should we invite?” Newt says. “We don’t have to make it a whole thing, if you don’t want. Just–do that  _again_ –a courthouse. Run in, run out, off to our honeymoon.”

“Newton,” Hermann sighs, stilling his hips and pressing his forehead to Newt’s sweat-damp back. “Please, darling, will you–”

Newt turns his head to frown back at him. “Hey, why’d you stop?” Hermann makes a small sound of disbelief, but grips Newt’s waist a bit tighter and rocks into him again. Newt moans low and buries his face in the pillows. “ _Oh_ , shit, that’s good, Hermann, you’re so  _good_  at this, should we have a reception?” Hermann ignores him, choosing instead to rock in a little harder, but Newt is undeterred. “If we have a reception I want karaoke. That’d be cool.”

“Absolutely not,” Hermann pants. “In no way–”

“More,” Newt urges, and Hermann obliges gladly, slips a hand around to Newt’s front to stroke him off. “ _Yeah_ , like that,  _Hermann_ , I can’t believe we’re getting married. I’m gonna get to call you my husband.” Newt whines and bucks into Hermann’s fist. “That’s so  _hot_.”

“What is?” Hermann plants a few sloppy kisses to Newt’s shoulder, works his hips furiously. Newt’s far more responsive to flattery in bed, but Hermann doesn’t mind getting his own ego stroked every now and then.

“My husband Hermann,” Newt moans, fisting the bedsheets, and, well, Hermann will take it, “shit, I love you so much, Hermann,  _Hermann_ , can I take your last name, oh–”

“We can’t very well have two Dr. Gottliebs running about,” Hermann says. “It’d be–” Newt cants his hips back and Hermann swears loudly against Newt’s back, digging his nails into Newt’s skin. “–far, ah, Newton, far too–must we have this conversation now?”

“Right,” Newt says, “sorry, sorry, keep going, I’m really close–wait, use your hand with the–the ring on it, that’s even sexier–”


	4. cuddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geiszlerr asked:  
> number 3 maria blease im begging u
> 
> 3: cuddling! rated g
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/174860196193/number-3-maria-blease-im-begging-u)

The heat’s busted in their apartment again. Shit not working in their apartment is nothing new (last week was the cable, the week before was the dishwasher) but that doesn’t mean Newt isn’t still going to complain about it their landlord finally does something. Until then, he’s resigned himself to shuffling around the place in old sweatpants and Hermann’s sweaters.

The plus side, though: Hermann gets clingy, and Newt loves when Hermann gets clingy–Hermann is already affectionate with him enough as is, so the sudden influx of cuddling just feels like a bonus. He spoons Newt more than usual in bed. He initiates more makeouts. When they watch TV after dinner, he practically sits in Newt’s lap. “I’m not complaining,” Newt says one night exactly one week into no central heating, as Hermann burrows deeper under the two blankets they’ve thrown over their comforter and effectively tries to meld himself with Newt’s body, “but is there a reason you’re being so–”

“So what?” Hermann’s voice is muffled. He’s wrapped his arms around Newt’s torso, and only the very top of his head is poking out from the blankets. It’s incredibly endearing. Newt’s grateful Hermann can’t see the sappy smile spreading across his face.

“You know,” Newt says, and ruffles Hermann’s slightly overgrown and puffy hair. Hermann actually  _headbutts_  his hand away, like some sort of pissed-off cat. “This.”

“You’re very…warm,” Hermann finally admits.

Hermann has bad circulation and icicle fingers even in the summer, so it makes sense that he’d use Newt–who runs a lot warmer and has a great deal of extra padding–as his own personal furnace. Still. “You only married me for my body,” Newt says mournfully, and snickers when Hermann pinches him.


	5. slow dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> number 22 for the prompts? if you already got it, 27!
> 
> 22: slow dancing! rated g
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/174869646463/number-22-for-the-prompts-if-you-already-got-it)

Hermann’s washing carrots off in the sink when a pair of tattooed arms snake their way around his waist and a pair of glasses press against the back of his neck. Newt, so it seems, needs attention. Hermann rolls his eyes. “I told you dinner would be ready soon,” he says. He knows Newt has no plans of helping him in the kitchen–Newt’s culinary skills start and stop at heating up frozen pizza, and even that proves to be a bit too much of a challenge sometimes–and as much as Hermann loves him, he’d rather be distracted after he gets everything in the oven.

“I know,” Newt says, fiddling with one of Hermann’s belt loops, “but I was bored and I missed you, so.”

“I’ve been gone five minutes.”

Newt doesn’t appear to have heard him. He’s humming something under his breath, something old and romantic that makes Hermann smile, and starts swaying back and forth. Newt’s romantic spells are intoxicating, and Hermann can’t help but sway a little too. “Do you wanna dance?” Newt says, voice surprisingly quiet.

Hermann does, actually. He realizes he’s still holding a handful of carrots and sets them down on the counter. He dries his hands on a dishtowel. “You’ll have to–” he begins, and he feels Newt nod.

“I know,” Newt says, and resumes his humming. Hermann turns in Newt’s arms and settles most of his weight onto him for support in lieu of his cane, forfeiting the few inches he has on Newt to lay his head against Newt’s chest instead. Like how they danced at their wedding. Newt keeps humming the same tune as they sway together, now, slowly moving across the linoleum. He steps on Hermann’s feet a few times, but he’s in socks (with little dinosaurs on them) so it doesn’t actually hurt, and Hermann can’t even imagine he would’ve cared even if it did.

“What’s the occasion?” Hermann says when Newt finishes off the song with a kiss.

Newt grins. “You look cute in an apron.”


	6. massage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geniusbee asked:  
> if you're still taking prompts, can i request newt/hermann and #9, with newt giving hermann massage?? THANK U
> 
> 9: massage! rated t
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/174924006768/if-youre-still-taking-prompts-can-i-request)

“I’m a biologist,” Newt declares, as he straddles Hermann’s back, “which means I’m  _infinitely_ more qualified than a masseuse or whatever. I bet I could name every single muscle as I go. Could a masseuse do that? No way.” Hermann hears Newt uncap the bottle of lavender-scented lotion he bought just for this, and then Newt pauses. “Well, maybe, but I could do it better. Want me to?”

“That won’t be necessary, dear,” Hermann says quickly.

Newt does, admittedly, give fairly good massages, but so far he hasn’t extended his skills beyond Hermann’s leg when it cramps up, or Hermann’s head when they shower together and he wants to shampoo Hermann’s hair. He insisted on having a shot at Hermann’s back when Hermann complained of feeling stiff one too many times, despite Hermann’s insistence in return that he’d rather see a professional. Newt just looked so disappointed when Hermann politely declined that Hermann felt he  _had_  to change his mind.

Hermann jumps when Newt digs lotion-slick fingers into his shoulders without warning and Newt sways dangerously atop him. Newt’s hand shoots out to steady himself on the bed so he doesn’t topple over the side. “Man,” Newt says, “you are  _tense_.” Newt digs his fingers back in and, now that Hermann knows what to expect, he has to admit it does feel nice. “What do you even  _have_  to be tense about?”

Newt has a point. Now that the world is, more or less, saved for good, he and Newt have found themselves with a great deal of free time to enjoy in each other’s company. They do crossword puzzles together. They garden together. Newt’s taken up knitting Hermann shapeless things he claims are sweaters while Hermann holds his yarn for him. Still: Hermann can’t help but feel he should be doing  _something_. He spent over a decade doing something-s, and to be suddenly thrust into a world of the opposite is quite odd. “Residual stress, of a sense,” he says, and groans loudly as Newt starts working his fingers into a particularly tough knot in the juncture of Hermann’s neck and shoulder. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

“Trapezius,” Newt says, and then digs his fingers into the other side as well. The tension in Hermann’s shoulders starts to give way easily under Newt’s clever hands, and Hermann shuts his eyes, lets himself relax. Newt bends over and kisses just under Hermann’s shoulder blade. “Rhomboid,” he says, voice muffled by Hermann’s skin, then hums. “I…think, anyway. I spent way too long picking apart kaiju.”

“You’re doing admirably,” Hermann assures him. He feels as though he may melt into the bed if Newt keeps this up.

“Better than a masseuse?” Newt sounds smug.

“Far better,” Hermann says, and sighs happily as Newt kisses his shoulder blade again.


	7. moving in together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> For the domestic prompts: 15 moving in together!
> 
> 15: moving in together! rated t (i honestly don't know the diff between g and t but...there's cursing? lmfao)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/174951593668/for-the-domestic-prompts-15-moving-in-together)

Newt is surprisingly blasé about the whole thing when Hermann asks him. Considering how long Hermann agonized over it, he can’t help but be a little offended. “I mean, we shared a lab for five years,” Newt says, when Hermann voices his concerns. “This is nothing new for us.”

“We shared a  _divided_  lab for five years,” Hermann points out, watching Newt bustle about his increasingly bare Shatterdome quarters and shove things into cardboard boxes marked ‘Geiszler’. “We can’t very well put tape down the center of the bedroom.”

Newt crams a few action figures and a rolled-up  _X-Files_  poster into a box and holds up his hands. “Dude, you’re the one who asked me. If you’re gonna back out–”

“I just want you to be sure,” Hermann says cautiously, fully aware of Newt’s distressing ability to jump into everything head-on without a second thought; he doesn’t want their relationship to be a casualty of impulsivity. “Really sure.”

Newt hops onto the bed next to Hermann and steals a kiss. “Yes, I’m sure,” he says, and Hermann smiles. “We’re genius rockstars who saved the world. I think we can handle living together.”

They make it about two weeks before threatening each other with bodily harm. It isn’t any of Newt’s annoying habits that are the final metaphorical straw–leaving laundry on the floor instead of just putting it in the hamper, hogging the covers, refusing to put the twist-tie back on the loaf of bread and instead just tucking the bag under–or even any of Hermann’s–his totalitarian hold over the thermostat, his loud snoring,  _occasionally_  forgetting to switch the kettle off.

It’s over paint. And in the middle of a Home Depot.

“We are  _not_  painting our bedroom green,” Hermann says. “Yellow is a warm color, and it would look far better with–”

“Oh my  _God_ , you’re boring,” Newt says. “‘Yellow is a warm color’? Are you eighty? We may as well just start wearing fucking  _khakis_  everywhere and–”

An employee materializes next to them just as Hermann begins to swell with rage. “Gentlemen,” he says, “can I help you with anything?”

Newt tries to shove his bright green paint sample into the man’s hand but Hermann knocks it away with the head of his cane. “We’re still deciding,” Hermann says with a forced, overly-polite smile, as Newt swears loudly and scrambles to pick up the sample.

“This is the throw pillows all over again,” Newt fumes, pointing an accusatory finger at Hermann. “And the curtains. Even the damn dishware! You won’t even let me pick out a plate, Hermann!”

“Stop acting like a  _child_ ,” Hermann hisses. “You’re causing a scene.” He plasters the fake smile back on his face. “Please excuse my boyfriend,” he says to the employee, unable to reign in his sarcasm, “he hasn’t interacted regularly with society in a decade.”

Newt doesn’t yell at Hermann, as Hermann had been expecting. He’s oddly quiet as the employee makes his excuses and ducks out–Hermann doesn’t blame the man–and even quieter as Hermann resumes comparing shades of yellow. It’s a bit unsettling. Newt has never been quiet in the entirety of the time Hermann’s known him. Hermann’s just about to say something when Newt beats him to it. “You called me your boyfriend,” he says.

Hermann’s fingers tighten around a swatch of Yellow Rose. “I…suppose I did.” It just slipped out so naturally, Hermann didn’t even think about it. Does Newt not want the label? Has Hermann mucked it all up already? They haven’t really discussed their relationship, much, just sort of followed a natural progression of sorts after their heat-of-the-moment post-war-clock-stopping kiss. They’re sharing a home and a bedroom. They kiss. They have sex. Newt’s taken him out to dinner, and vice-versa. Hermann just assumed– “I didn’t mean–”

“You’ve never called me that before.” Newt is giving him the strangest look. He carefully tucks the little chip of something called Green Crush back into the stand. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Hermann blinks in surprise. “Yellow’s fine. I was being an asshole.”

Hermann feels a sudden rush of guilt. “No,” Hermann says, and realizes it’s true, “ _I_  was. You’re right, I’ve been monopolizing all the decision-making. You have just as much a say as I do. We’re–” he watches carefully for Newt’s reaction “– _boyfriends_ , after all.”

“Yeah,” Newt says, smiling in a way that’s almost bashful, and Hermann returns it. “We are.”


	8. marriage proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lanylevendula asked:  
> Hi, i just wanted to say that your newmann fanfictions make me so happy and i get super excited when i see you post a new one. If you are still doing them, can you maybe do prompt 17: Marriage Proposal?
> 
> 17: marriage proposal!! rated an extremely mild m for implied sex (that happens before the fic starts)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175016362498/hi-i-just-wanted-to-say-that-your-newmann)

Newt lays on his stomach, chin pillowed on Hermann’s chest while Hermann plays with his hair. It’s still slightly damp from the shower Hermann forced him to take; Newt had been all gung-ho about just jumping into bed and then Hermann’s bones, but Hermann was wary about contact with the medley of filth, blood, and kaiju viscera that’d accumulated on Newt’s body throughout the day. Which, of course, is a completely justified concern, Newt smelled and looked like death personified and his clothing–now lying in a heap by the bathroom door–is completely unsalvageable. And then they got to shower  _together_ , which exceeded all of Newt’s expectations. Now, they’ve dimmed the lights, save for the small lamp Newt keeps on his desk, and it’s warm and cozy. Hermann looks exceptionally handsome like this, all open and vulnerable with his hair all damp and messy. Hermann always looks exceptionally handsome to Newt, though.

It strikes Newt, in that moment, that he wants to see Hermann vulnerable and soft and cuddled up against Newt  _all_  the time; furthermore, that awesome sex doesn’t even necessarily need to precede it (though he wouldn’t object). The concept doesn’t panic him.

He sits up, knocking the sheet away from their bodies, and Hermann makes a grumpy noise when he’s suddenly devoid of Newt’s body heat. “Let’s get married,” Newt declares.

Hermann blinks at him. “Let’s–what?”

“Let’s get married,” Newt repeats. “Let’s elope. Run away together.”

Truthfully, Newt’s fantasized about marrying Hermann a lot. He fantasized about it when they were writing letters and he was young and head-over-heels for his genius pen pal he’d never met. He fantasized about it when they were forced to work together in Hong Kong and he realized that Hermann Gottlieb was an attractive bastard when he was angry. He fantasized about it as a motivator for long nights in the lab, when he was running on two hours of sleep: save the world, and Hermann will fall in love with you and you can get married. He never fantasized about proposing like  _this_ –usually, Hermann was the one doing the proposing in his mind–but Newt’s a scientist. He knows how to adapt to new information, like the new information (gained immediately post-first-time-sex with Hermann, and in a shower at that) that he never wants to be apart from Hermann ever again if he can help it.

“We’ve only–” Hermann splutters, clearly not on the same page, “this was our first–!”

“Look, man,” Newt says, snuggling back up against Hermann, because now that they’re basically fiancés he’s  _allowed_  to. “I’m totally in love with you, you’re totally in love with me,” he raises a finger for each point like he’s making a list, “we’re both great at sex, we’ve known each other for over a decade, we have absolutely nothing to do now that the world’s not in mortal peril so we may as well–”

“ _Boredom_  is not a reason to get  _married_ ,” Hermann interrupts, and then his face heats up to a spectacular shade of red when the full effect of what Newt said sinks in. “You’re–in love with me?”

“One hundred percent,” Newt says happily, and starts pressing little kisses across Hermann’s collarbone. Newt’s a fan of all of Hermann, of course, but his collarbones are particularly nice. They’re bony, and they stick out a bit. He’s excited for when they get married and he has 24/7 access to kissing them. “Did I not say that earlier?”

“You did not,” Hermann says, eyes wide.

“Whoops.” Newt shrugs. “So, is that a yes?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Hermann says. “People don’t just get married on a whim.  _We_  can’t just get married on a whim. We–” Newt presses more little kisses across Hermann’s face and cheeks, and Hermann’s stern tone wavers, “we, ah–”

“That’s not a no,” Newt hums. “I’m not hearing a no. C’mon, Hermann, I’ll get down on one knee if you want me to. Oh!” He quickly works the skull ring off his pinkie, flourishes it triumphantly. Hermann stares. “Here. I’ll get you a cooler one later that costs a shit ton of money, with a big fancy stone.” Only what Hermann deserves.

“Newton,” Hermann begins, touching the ring gently and–

“Holy shit, man, are you crying?” Hermann says nothing, but his eyes are wet and his lip is trembling, and Newt doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen Hermann cry. Not in his entire time knowing him. Especially not  _happy_ crying.

“Fine,” Hermann says, oddly hoarse. “Let’s get married.” Newt feels giddy. He tries to slip the skull ring onto Hermann’s ring finger, but–unsurprisingly–it’s too small, so he puts it on his pinkie instead. Hermann stares at it a moment longer, and then kisses Newt again and again.


	9. holidays together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Your Newmann prompts give me life! If you want could you try 5, 13 or 17 please?
> 
> 13: holidays together! (i made up my own little breach-closing holiday lol) rated g/t 
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175246353908/your-newmann-prompts-give-me-life-if-you-want)

One drink, Newt insists. One drink and then they’ll go back home and cuddle on the sofa and watch whatever lame documentary Hermann wants, and Newt won’t even complain.

“It’s  _our_  holiday,” Newt insists as he and Hermann take their lunch break together on their favorite bench on the university campus. It’s unseasonably nice out, and Newt decided to forgo his leather jacket and steal one of Hermann’s big cardigans for the occasion, even though the sleeves are too long and cover his hands. “We can’t just not celebrate.”

Newt’s referring, of course, to it being the two year anniversary of the Breach’s closure; hardly  _their_  holiday, Hermann argued last year, but when Newt badgered him enough he agreed they were at least somewhat instrumental in the holiday existing in the first place, so score one point for Newt.

Hermann frowns, considering. “We have to give lectures quite early tomorrow,” he says, but Newt sticks his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout and pulls Hermann’s cardigan tighter around himself. Hermann’s a softie pushover these days, so it works. “Though, one drink won’t hurt. I suppose we’ve earned it.”

Being so irresistibly cute that Hermann gives in to anything: score two points for Newt.

* * *

They do not, in fact, just get one drink. They intend to get one drink, but then Newt insists on getting them each a shot of Jägermeister (“Get it!” Newt exclaims happily) after they’ve polished off their beers, and then Newt gets them each another beer. It’s really not much at all, but Newt has absolutely  _shit_  alcohol tolerance, so by the time he’s halfway through his second he’s flushed and giggling and leaning up against Hermann.

Hermann’s not remotely a lightweight, but Newt’s mood is infectious, and soon–Hermann’s rules about PDA be damned–he’s swinging an arm around Newt’s shoulders and smiling almost as wide as him. Their booth is quite cozy, really, so Newt burrows against Hermann’s shoulder and stares up at him. Hermann’s a little red in the face, and from this angle, his eyelashes look even nicer. “You,” Newt declares, reaching up and poking Hermann’s nose, “are very handsome. I like your eyelashes.”

“Thank you,” Hermann says. “I like your freckles.” The corners of his eyes crinkle–laughter lines–and Newt is not one to be one-upped so he fully intends to begin an speech on those crinkles, but the television above the bar snags his attention.

“… _been officially two years since the collapse of the Breach_ …”

Newt perks up, points excitedly at the screen. “Hey!” he exclaims, elbowing Hermann, “Look! They’re talking about us! Kinda.” He waves at the bartender until he gets her attention. “Turn this up!”

The news program, in fact, does not mention either of them by name, but talks extensively about Mako and Raleigh–who, Newt admits, are a lot more important–and even has a mini-memorial segment. It  _does_ , however, briefly allude to “two scientists” whose drift with a kaiju brain was “instrumental” in the victory.

“There we are, baby!” Newt whoops loudly and pounds on the tabletop. “‘Two scientists’!”

“It’s better than last year,” Hermann sniffs, but he hasn’t lost his smile, “where they switched our surnames.”

Newt grins at him. “I liked the way Hermann Geiszler sounded. The hyphen’s better, though.” Newt takes that moment to twist in Hermann’s grasp until he can poke his head over the top of their booth and catch the attention of the adjacent table. “That’s me and my husband!” he exclaims excitedly (though it’s more like slurring), pointing at the television. “That’s us!”

One of the three men at the table raises a glass to Newt in an awkward toast. “Congratulations.”

“Hermann was so brave,” Newt continues, because wow, Hermann  _drifted_  with Newt, he did it  _for_  Newt, “and I mean, I was pretty brave, but he just took the cake, and he’s super hot too, and a  _genius_ , so he’s like the whole package–”

Hermann tugs Newt back down, the tips of his ears red. “Newt,” he says, “don’t bother them.” He feels too pleasantly warm and fuzzy–alcohol, as well as Newt’s loud extolling of his virtues–to do any real scolding, though.

“But you  _are_  the whole package,” Newt says, and presses a messy kiss to Hermann’s cheek. Newt’s attention on Hermann is fleeting, though, and soon he’s eyeing up the bar again. “I feel like they should give us free shots,” he says, “since we, like, totally saved the world. We’ve earned free shots.”

“You haven’t even finished your beer,” Hermann protests, but Newt’s already waving the bartender over.

“Hi,” he says, “can me and my husband–” here he nods pointedly at Hermann, and Hermann feels another pleasant rush of warmth because he doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get over being Newt’s husband, “–get some more shots? We helped save the world.” He adds, almost as an afterthought, with air-quotes, “We’re the ‘two scientists’.”

The shots the bartender brings them are electric blue and on the house (Newt gets his wish), but Hermann refuses on principal to let Newt ingest any more alcohol (“I am  _not_  carrying you home. I physically  _cannot_.”) but he does end up knocking his own back.  “How was it?” Newt says, watching somewhat mournfully as Hermann sets his shot glass down and pushes Newt’s full one to the other side of the table.

Hermann makes a face. “Very sweet,” he says.

Newt looks at Hermann for a long, thoughtful, moment, and then swoops in for a kiss that has a bit too much tongue to be considered chaste. “Hm,” he hums against Hermann’s lips, enjoying the tingle of the residual alcohol, “you’re right. Very sweet.”


	10. bed sharing + erotic dreams (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> For the trope mash up thing could you do #75 & 88 (p.s. I think you’re really cool and love your writing)
> 
> 75 Bed Sharing + 88 Erotic Dreams; Rating E/NSFW
> 
> (i feel so funny posting compliments for me HA but ive committed to copying the full inbox message at this point)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175353580283/for-the-trope-mash-up-thing-could-you-do-75-88)

Ultimately the whole thing is Tendo’s fault, because he was the one in charge of booking hotel rooms for the conference and decided–because of a  _tight budget_ –to stick Newt and Hermann together in a room with two singles instead of each letting them each have their own. And wires, of course, had gotten crossed along the line, and those two singles somehow became one double that Newt and Hermann were now expected to  _share_. (“You share a lab,” Tendo said, annoyingly unbothered by the whole thing when Hermann called him in a rage, “you can make this work, too.”) **  
**

Hermann’s refused to relinquish his hold on his small travel bag, let alone unpack. He’s more or less just standing there in front of the door, fuming. “Just give it up, Hermann, it’s only for two nights,” Newt says, shoving his few balled-up button-downs, boxers, and his extra pair of jeans into one drawer. “Anyway, you heard the dude at the front desk. This is the only room left.” (After calling Tendo, Hermann marched down to the lobby and requested to be moved at once, which, of course, was impossible, to say nothing of the fact that the PPDC wouldn’t have covered the cost of it anyway.)

Newt shuts the drawer and tosses his duffel bag into the corner, and Hermann fumes for a few more seconds before he visibly caves, shoulders sagging. “I just have a hard time seeing how we’ll both fit,” he says. He has a point. A queen-sized, they could easily manage–this will be harder.

“We’ll have to spoon,” Newt says cheerfully. “I call first shower.” He starts stripping out of his gross airplane travel clothing and Hermann turns away, scandalized, and Newt snickers as he shuts the bathroom door behind himself.

And then panics.

Newt’s not exactly thrilled about sharing a bed with Hermann, either, but it’s  _not_  for the reasons that Hermann obviously is. Hermann probably thinks Newt’s gross, or whatever, or just straight up hates him, which is justified, but Newt–well, under other circumstances, ideal ones, wherein Hermann doesn’t hate him–would like very much to share a bed with Hermann. Especially if things precede and proceed the bedsharing. And spooning,  _God_ , Newt said it as a joke, but now he’s gonna have that thought stuck in his head all night. Being all pressed up against Hermann, Hermann draped over him or vice-versa, warm and touching and– “Hurry up, will you, Newton,” Hermann calls in, with a quick little knock, as Newt forces himself to quell his growing arousal, “I’d like to shower too.” (Hermann in the shower, nude, water droplets rolling down his body, sighing as the steam eases his joints–)

Newt isn’t going to last the night, let alone the weekend.

 

They don’t end up spooning, to Newt’s disappointment, or maybe to his relief. Instead they lay side by side in the little bed, ankle to shoulder in an uncomfortably tight squeeze, determinedly not speaking to or looking at each other. Hermann’s still wet from his shower, and Newt’s in nothing but a pair of threadbare boxers–it’s his own fault for not packing a single t-shirt, but he thought he’d  _be in his own bed._ “Well,” Newt says, tapping around a bit on his phone before sticking it back on the bedside table. “I set an alarm for us. 7:30. Should give us enough time to get dressed and eat breakfast and any other shit we need to do before the thing starts.”

Hermann grumbles something out in response.

“Okay,” Newt says. “Uh. Goodnight, I guess.”

Hermann grumbles again. Newt leans over and shuts off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

 

They’ve discovered they only have one bed, only this time, Hermann isn’t bothered by it. He’s happy about it, in fact, and he shows Newt how happy he is about it by suggesting they put it to good use. “I thought you’d be upset,” Newt says, but Hermann sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls him closer, closer, tugs Newt’s shirt off, strokes his chest.

“Of course not,” Hermann says– _coos_ , really–and he bats his nice long eyelashes at Newt. “Of course not, dear,” he says again, stroking Newt’s hips, and then he’s naked, and Newt’s naked, and he kisses Newt sweetly while he spoons Newt from behind, rocks against him, grinds against him.

“Hermann,” Newt gasps, and feels Hermann’s erection against his ass, so solid, so real, Hermann breathing harshly in his ear, saying Newt’s name over and over, “Hermann,” he sighs, and–and he wakes up in pitch black, disoriented and hard and confused, but there’s still something stiff digging in to the cleft of his ass and Hermann’s bad leg is swung up over Newt’s calves and his arm is across Newt’s chest and he’s mumbling  _Newton, Newton_  and Newt thinks  _holy shit_ , of course this would happen when Hermann’s  _asleep_.

“Hermann,” Newt hisses, poking at Hermann’s arm and trying to wriggle out from under it, but Hermann just makes a little breathy sighing noise at the friction that jolts straight to Newt’s dick and rolls his hips forward again. “ _Fuck_.”

That does it; Hermann startles awake, says “Newton?” sleepily, almost endearingly, and–the second he realizes what he’s doing–his arm flies off Newt’s chest and he tries to roll away. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I didn’t mean–I’m sorry–”

Newt quickly reaches behind and grabs hold of Hermann’s waist, keeping him in place. Hermann stills. Newt takes a deep breath. He rolls his hips back, grinding his ass against Hermann’s erection, and he hears Hermann make that little sighing noise again. “No, it’s fine,” Newt says, “it’s fine, you can, uh–” He rolls his hips back again, bites his lip to keep from whimpering at the sensation. Hermann is  _hard_  and Newt can feel every inch of him, even through the fabric of his boxers and Hermann’s pajama bottoms.

Hermann doesn’t move at first, but then he tentatively creeps his arm across Newt’s chest, palm spreading flat against Newt’s bare skin. He presses his lips to the back of Newt’s neck and grinds forward, agonizingly slow. “Yeah,” Newt breathes, and slips his hand into his boxers. “Hermann–”

“I was dreaming of you,” Hermann says, low in his ear.

“Really?” Newt pants, stroking himself as Hermann ruts against him, kisses behind his ear. “Hermann–”

“Newton,” Hermann moans, keep saying my name, Newt thinks, please, please, “Newton, Newton–”

“–turn your  _damn_  alarm off, Newton, Newton wake  _up_ –”

Someone shoves him hard, and Newt jerks straight up in bed to see Hermann’s face, looming above him and scowling. His phone is vibrating wildly on the nightstand. Newt fumbles for it and nearly bats it to the carpet in his attempts to shut the fucking thing off. “What?” he slurs, once it’s off. “I’m awake?”

“We have a talk to attend in two hours,” Hermann says. He looks cute, with his hair messy and his pajamas wrinkly like this, but that’s so not important right now at  _all_. “I thought you’d want to get breakfast together.”

“Right,” Newt says, painfully aware of his massive, raging boner that probably even Hermann can see. “Uh. Thanks.”

Hermann nods, edges off the side of the bed, hoists himself up with his cane. He’s oddly subdued. Finally, he faces Newt again, a pink blush slowly spreading across his cheeks. “You were saying my name,” he says.

“Oh,” Newt says. “Uh. Was I?”

They stare at each other for a few long moments. Hermann opens and closes his mouth twice without saying anything, nods, and then turns and busies himself at the dresser.


	11. time travel + secret relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> ooh! mashup, 97 and 54?
> 
> 97 Time Travel + 54 Secret Relationship; rated t
> 
> (uprising can interact)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175378621013/ooh-mashup-97-and-54)

Hermann’s not sure why it happens, or how it happens, but the point in fact is that one minute he’s in 2035 watching Newton Geiszler from the other side of a glass wall and the next he’s in 2025 and sitting on the floor of his old lab in Hong Kong. He knows it’s the lab in an instant: the metal floor, the stench of formaldehyde and kaiju entrails, the line of yellow tape down the middle–and, of course, there’s also his younger self and an equally young Newton Geiszler peering down suspiciously at him.

They both startle back when they see his face.

“Oh,  _sweet_ ,” Newton says, after a long silence.

They help him to his feet, of course, sit him down in one of their desk chairs before launching into the inevitable interrogation–who is he, where is he from ( _when_  is he from, Newton enjoys correcting), how the hell he got there, which Hermann can only answer two of. Hermann’s honestly surprised at how well they’re both taking what more or less appears to be a future version of Hermann dropping from the sky; frankly, Hermann’s surprised at how well he  _himself_  is taking it. He feels so oddly numb, these days, as if everything’s been dulled, like everything stopped when Newton (but it wasn’t really Newton, he has to remind himself of that) clenched his hands around Hermann’s throat and tried to end the world. He’s spent nearly all the days since at Newton’s cell. This is certainly a change in routine, if nothing else.

Hermann’s younger self and Newton are huddled together some feet away, talking in urgent whispers that carry easily. Hermann’s younger self can’t stop staring at him. Hermann can’t stop staring at Newton, who appears to be incredibly thrilled about the whole thing. Younger Hermann is less than thrilled.

“Just because he looks like me,” Young Hermann hisses, with a sharp glance in Hermann’s direction, “doesn’t mean we can trust him. We should go to the Marshal now–”

“But he doesn’t look like you,” Newton says. “Well, he does,  _obviously_ , but he’s a lot more stylish. I bet I’m dressing you now.” He grins, effortless and charming, and it makes Hermann’s heart skip a beat. God, he misses Newton. He misses Newton so badly. He hasn’t seen that smile in a decade. “Hey,” Newton says, raising his voice, “when’d you say you were from again?“

"2035,” Hermann says. Newton waltzes over, Hermann’s younger self hot on his heels. He’s scowling at both Hermann and the back of Newton’s head.

“2035,” Newton echoes. He jumps up on the edge of the desk and turns that grin on Hermann, swinging his legs back and forth. “So, if you’re alive, I’m guessing the kaiju don’t win after all?”

Younger Hermann clears his throat. “I don’t think it’s wise to ask questions about our future.”

Newton rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, Hermann, the world won’t explode.” He shrugs. “I don’t think, anyway.”

“ _Still_ ,” Younger Hermann says, and the two devolve into bickering.

Watching them interact makes something deep in Hermann’s chest ache, for the past, for Newton, and he wants nothing more than to keep from shattering the illusion of a future Newton’s likely built up upon seeing Hermann: no kaiju, no war, just the two of them happy together. “The kaiju don’t win,” Hermann interrupts, weakly. They stop arguing immediately.

“And we make it out okay?” Newton looks so hopeful. (Just an hour ago, Hermann had been staring at Newton’s unconscious body, bleeding and strapped to a chair.) Before waiting for an answer, he adds in a lower voice, “Do we get married?”

“Newton,” his younger self scolds, cheeks red.

“I  _know_ ,” Newton says, waving a hand dismissively, “but it’s not really a secret if it’s  _you_.” His glasses start to slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up, and the ache deepens; Newton hasn’t worn his glasses in so long. “So? Do we? I don’t see a ring,” he says, with a searching glance down at Hermann’s left hand, “but–are you okay, dude?”

Hermann wipes at his eyes. “Yes,” he says, cursing himself. “I’m sorry, it’s just been–”

Newton’s face falls. His legs still. “It’s been what?” he says, sharply. Hermann’s younger self doesn’t look irritated anymore; something akin to terror is spreading across his face instead. “Hermann. Am I–does something–?”

“No,” Hermann lies quickly. “No, of course not. I just can’t imagine how worried you must be about me right now. Future you, that is.”

"Oh, right,” Newton says, relaxing. He laughs, and it’s relieved. “Obviously I’m insanely worried about you.” He smiles again, a bit dreamily. “Man, a whole decade later and you haven’t dumped my ass yet.”

Hermann’s younger self isn’t buying in so easily, and he’s giving Hermann an uncomfortable, knowing stare. "Newton,” his younger self says, “will you please fetch me–er, him–some coffee? Time travel must be exhausting, after all.”

“Time-space jetlag,” Newton jokes, and jumps off the desk. “Lame excuse, Hermann, but sure. Talk in private all you want. You want coffee too, Hermann Prime?”

“Yes, please,” his young self says.

“No sugar, right? For both of you?”

“No sugar,” Hermann and his younger self say at the exact same time.

Newton blinks, and stares between the two of them; he looks mildly flustered. “Man,” he says, “I scored the interdimensional jackpot, here. Uh. I’m gonna speak for future me and say it’s for science and definitely not cheating if–”

“Coffee,” younger Hermann says. Newton nods, jogs out of the lab. The second the heavy door swings shut, young Hermann rounds on Hermann, deadly serious, as Hermann expected him to.

“What happens to Newton in the future?” he says.

Hermann gnaws on his bottom lip and considers his options. If he tells the truth, about what happens to Newton, warns his past self to not let Newton drift alone with a kaiju brain in just a few weeks time, Newton may be saved from a decade of hell and an even more hellish future. But if Newton  _doesn’t_  drift with the kaiju brain, the planet is most certainly doomed.

However: Hermann doesn’t remember this meeting happening in his own past. Maybe he hasn’t merely traveled in time. Maybe he’s traveled dimensions–some sort of strange Anteverse blip, Breach energy, what have you. Maybe, a small voice nags, maybe the Newton he loves is already doomed and the most he can do is try to save another, right his past mistakes and save this Newton in some minuscule way. Maybe if he succeeds, he’ll be eradicating himself from existence.

But maybe this Newton can be saved.

“After we close the Breach,” Hermann begins, half-expecting himself to slowly start fading from existence with each word, “Newton will get a job offer and he will want to take it. We’ll get upset that he wants to take it, and we’ll fight, and we’ll tell him to leave and he’ll leave.” Young Hermann makes as if to speak, but Hermann holds up a hand, speaks more urgently. “Do  _not_  let him leave. Under any circumstances. If you do–”

The lab door swings open and Newton bounds in, balancing two coffee cups in one hand. “I’ve thought about it some more,” he says, “and it definitely wouldn’t be cheating, and future me would be offended if I didn’t take advantage of this opportunity when the multiverse’s just thrown it in my lap. And we’ll be making memories for Future Newt, too, so he’ll be just as thankful.” He shuts the door with a bump of his hip, then frowns. “Oh, right, Future Newt. We should probably work out how to get you back to 2035, Hermann. Future Newt probably misses you.”

“I can only imagine,” Hermann says, and locks eyes with his younger self. His younger self gives a short, terse nod. “I miss him a great deal.”


	12. secret relationship + flirting under fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> mashup meme, 54 + 69?
> 
> 54 Secret Relationship + 69 Flirting Under Fire; rated t
> 
> (this might be one of my favorite ones i did!)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175413087423/mashup-meme-54-69)

Drifting with a kaiju brain had been pretty fucking terrifying, to be honest, not something that Newt was eager to repeat, and then, of course, he had to repeat it, but it was made incrementally better by Hermann tagging along for the ride this time, who Newt can confirm is  _also_  not eager to repeat the experience. Once they call for a ride Hermann spends a good five minutes scrubbing at his tongue with the handkerchief that Newt dug out of his pockets and got from God-knows-where (he thinks it might be Hermann’s) and making entertaining faces. “Is that really important right now?” Newt says, tapping his foot as he searches the sky for their ride. “You can just brush your teeth or use mouthwash or whatever once we, you know, save the world.”

“It’s crucial,” Hermann says.

He scrubs at his tongue one more time before he finally stops, apparently satisfied, and daintily hands the handkerchief to Newt. “Oh, gee, thanks,” Newt says sarcastically. He crams it back in his pocket.

Then Hermann grabs his lapels and kisses him. Newt’s only a little surprised; they did essentially mind-meld, after all, were face to face with each other’s deepest fears and thoughts and feelings, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, and those deepest fears and thoughts and feelings included over a decade’s worth of reciprocated  _longing_ , which is pretty sweet. He just didn’t think Hermann would act on it while their lives are in mortal peril. Actually, no, that’s the perfect situation to act on it. Newt kisses back enthusiastically.

They kiss a bit on the helicopter, too, because what the hell, they’re probably about to die, who cares about PDA, but they do have to stop to hustle up to LOCCENT and shove aside Hansen to shout instructions at Danger and Striker over the comms.

“Now that you’ve heard all that–” Hansen is saying, and everyone’s eyes are trained on the holodisplay but Hermann’s still awfully close to Newt’s face and their hands are touching on the mic so Newt doesn’t really care about much else (end of the world and he feels fine, or whatever).

“Your eye’s red,” Newt says, finally noticing the ring around Hermann’s iris.

“Hm?” Hermann says. He’s distracted, looking intently at Newt’s mouth.

“That was really brave of you,” Newt continues, tone low, “drifting with me and all. Drifting  _for_ me.”

“Nonsense,” Hermann says. “You risked yourself in the first place.  _You’re_ the brave one. And  _foolish_. And–” he licks his lips and his voice is just as low as Newt’s when he continues, “–very, very brilliant, too. You built a working interface from  _garbage_ , Newton, without anyprior experience.”

God, he loves it when Hermann compliments him. If they weren’t surrounded by, like, fifty people who would become instantly aware of recent changes in his working relationship with Hermann (and also if they weren’t currently launching an attack on the Anteverse)–“I want to make out with you so bad right now, dude,” Newt says quietly.

“We’ll be subtle,” Hermann breathes, and starts to lean in–

“I’m sitting  _right here_ ,” Tendo says.


	13. bookshop au + fairy tale au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> piscesintherain asked:  
> Okay, for the trope mashup, how about a Newt/Hermann version of #6 (Bookshop AU) and #25 (Fairy Tale AU)
> 
> 6 Bookshop AU + 25 Fairy Tale AU; rated g/t
> 
> (peak absurdity tbh LOL...)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175423809503/okay-for-the-trope-mashup-how-about-a)

Newt found the bookshop by accident on his walk home from work earlier this evening. It’s weird–in all years at the university, and all his years taking this  _exact_  path back to his apartment, he’s somehow never seen it before. So he checks it out. **  
**

It’s a pretty inconspicuous place on the outside, ancient and dusty-looking with a sign that’s all rotted away. It’s so bad he can’t even read the name. The inside’s not any better–it smells like a funeral home and it’s completely empty except for one miserable-looking dude behind the counter who’s leaning on a cane and flipping through some ancient Victorian guide to astronomy. He doesn’t even bother looking up when the bell above the door chimes and announces Newt.

He’s also pretty hot, in a sexy librarian way, with an outdated old vest and little round glasses on a chain. Or like a sexy hipster professor. Newt digs it. He’s gonna score his number. He waltzes up to the counter and leans against it, drags a finger in a circle across the surface. “I don’t mean to sound like a dick or anything,” Newt says, and bats his eyelashes, “but you definitely look like the type to work at a bookshop.”

The man sets his book down carefully. “Odd,” he says, and Newt’s surprised to note the accent, “you don’t look like the type to visit a bookshop.”

“Ooh,” Newt says, grinning. “Touché.” The guy’s got a point, in a generalizing asshole-ish way; Newt’s got his sleeves rolled up to display his monster tats and he’s got a bit too much gel in his hair today. Newt decides he likes the guy immediately. “So what’s the deal with this place? Is it new or something?”

“No,” the man says cryptically, and nothing else.

“I just never noticed it before today,” Newt explains, “and I’ve lived here for ten years.”

“You mustn’t have been looking very hard, then,” the man says, and picks up his book again.

Oh, he’s a  _complete_  asshole. Newt’s almost head over heels already. “I’m Newt,” he says, leaning a bit closer. “Short for Newton, but I hate being called Newton, so Newt is fine. I teach at the university. Biology. And marine biology. And some biochem. I’m pretty versatile, you know.” He winks, but the guy doesn’t see it. Oh well. “Do you want to get coffee when your shift ends?”

The man freezes. “Pardon?” he says, this time removing his glasses to stare at Newt.

“Do you want to get coffee,” Newt repeats, “when your shift ends? Mr.–” he searches for the guys name tag, and is pleasantly surprised. “Oh.  _Dr_. Gottlieb. No first name?”

“Hermann,” he says quickly. He’s staring very oddly at Newt. “I’m afraid… it’s just me working here tonight, so it won’t be possible for me to leave.”

Newt shrugs. “I could always bring it back here, dude.” He’s not sure why, but there’s something very intriguing about Hermann. Something off about him that Newt can’t quite place. So, obviously, Newt kind of wants to bang him.

It’s pitch black when Newt strolls out a few minutes later, to his complete shock. Moon and stars out and everything. It must be nearly nine o'clock–past eleven, according to a quick check of his phone. Newt left work at five. How long has he been  _in_ that bookshop? He turns to go back inside and hound Hermann, maybe raincheck coffee since nothing would even be open now, but the bookshop  _isn’t there_. He gives a thorough investigation of where it  _used_ to be, and where it  _should_  be, but all that stands there is a hollowed out shell with shattered windows that looks like it’s been vacant for fifty years.

“This is weird,” Newt declares to the empty street, and goes home.

It’s the weekend, so he doesn’t take that path again until three days later, same time as Friday. He grabbed two coffees on the way just in case–just in case what? Newt hadn’t cracked and been hallucinating the whole thing after all? He’ll have an extra coffee for himself, if nothing else.

But the shop is there, same rotted sign and dusty (but not broken) windows as before. Newt’s a scientist; this can only demand a rigorous investigation. He pushes open the door and is met by the little bell. “Hermann?” he calls.

Hermann’s there at the counter again, and he seems shocked to see Newt. “What are  _you_ doing here?” he says.

Newt presents the coffee cups proudly. “I did say I would get coffee. Even if you, like, disappeared on me. And I mean that literally. How’d you do that? It was cool as shit.” He slides one of the cups over the counter to Hermann. Hermann stares at it, and then up at Newt. 

“Usually,” he begins, and clears his throat. “No one’s ever been able to come back, before. Usually it’s just the once.”

“You could try putting up opening hours on the door,” Newt offers helpfully. “Or moving your shop off a  _time vortex_ , or whatever the hell it is. You know I lost almost five hours?” He drinks some of his coffee and barely swallows before he starts talking again. “I can’t even be pissed because, like I said, it was cool as  _shit_.”

“It’s impossible to come back more than once,” Hermann continues like Newt hadn’t spoken. “That’s part of the rules.”

“Do you study astronomy?” Newt says; Hermann’s got another book like the one from Friday out. And his name tag does say Dr. “Astrophysics?” Maybe the guy’s built some sort of time machine. Asshole, hot, and smart. That would be the whole package.

“I–used to,” Hermann says faintly. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but how the  _hell_  did you come back?”

“Same way as the first time.” Newt shrugs. “Do you want to get dinner instead? I’ll wait for you to close up shop.”

“How are you–?” Hermann sighs. “Do you not find something odd about this place? At all? As if it’s a bit off?”

“Besides the time vortex thing?”

“Years ago,” Hermann begins dramatically, “centuries ago, I angered the owner of this shop. A fairy. He cursed me with immortality, and–”

Hermann has nice hands, Newt notices. And a nice mouth. He likes watching him speak. Did Hermann say he was immortal? That’s kind of hot. He’s probably seen a lot of cool shit.

“–I can only be freed, freed from the shop and freed to live out the rest of my natural lifespan, by true love’s kiss. But–”

“But no one’s allowed to visit more than once,” Newt finishes, waving his hand. “I get the picture, dude. Luckily for you,” he leans over the counter and grips the front of Hermann’s blazer, and Hermann’s eyes widen, and Newt suddenly feels very cool so he thinks what he says next can be excused by heat-of-the-moment adrenaline. “I’m a rule-breaker,  _baby_.” He mashes their lips together.

Newt wasn’t really sure what to expect: maybe an explosion of light, or sparkles, or Newt himself turning into a frog (that happens in fairy tales a lot, doesn’t it? And Hermann kind of looks like a frog), but it’s just a pretty average kiss. He almost thinks it didn’t work–which, bummer, he wouldn’t have minded Hermann as his true love or whatever–but when he pulls away from Hermann the shop has changed around them from musty but usable to the ancient, hollowed-out shack of Friday night, and the counter is gone. Hermann seems more or less the same, except he’s looking at Newt with a weird mixture of elation and disappointment.

“ _You’re_  my true love?” Hermann says.

“It worked!” Newt exclaims. “Sweet! Anyway, do you want to get dinner?”

Hermann works his jaw furiously, then shrugs. “Oh, why not.”


	14. locked in a room + i didn't mean to turn you on (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jooliefiveash: 70 and 86 and with Newmann!
> 
> 70 Locked in a Room + 86 I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On; rated M/NSFW
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175443009778/prompt-from-here-70-locked-in-a-room-86-i)

“What do you mean,” Hermann says, deadly calm, “it’s locked?”

Newton gives the door a little push. It doesn’t budge. It’s hard to discern exactly, since it’s so dark in the closet, but Newton appears to be giving him a very, very guilty look. “Uh.”

Hermann closes his eyes and counts to ten. The reason they’re even trapped there in the first place is almost too embarrassing to believe, and Newton is entirely to blame; there were rumors of  _further_  budget cuts, he and Newton got nervous about their future employment under the PPDC, Newton suggested they–well,  _eavesdrop_  has such…negative…connotations–strategically place themselves outside the Shatterdome conference room as a meeting about such budget cuts was held, the Marshal and Hansen chose a very inconvenient time to leave the room, and Newton panicked and shoved both himself and Hermann into a nearby janitor’s closet. Which, or so it appears, they’re now trapped in.

It’s quite stuffy, Hermann’s beginning to notice. And hot. And  _very_  cramped. Newton’s back is nearly pressed entirely up against Hermann’s front, and his hair tickles Hermann’s nose and his elbows jostle against Hermann’s stomach every time he even slightly moves.

Newton rattles the doorknob fruitlessly, gives the door one more violent shove. Nothing happens. “It’s definitely locked,” Newton declares. “ _Why_  the hell a closet has a lock on it in the first place beats me, but here we are. Oh, wait!” He unclips his ID badge from his waist and waves it around wildly. “I bet I could try to pick the lock. Like they do with credit cards in movies and shit.”

“‘In movies’,” Hermann echoes. Newton ignores him, though he does elbow Hermann a bit more than can be considered an  _accident_  as he bends over as much as he can to properly jam his card against the lock. Meaning, of course, given the limited space, he has to press his ass right up against Hermann’s crotch and jostles himself back with every little movement. 

Hermann closes his eyes and counts to ten again, but for an entirely different reason this time–certain parts of his anatomy are beginning to take an interest in the proceedings at hand. “Newton,” he says, and tries to inch back, but there’s  _no room_  to, and his legs shake and he just ends up leaning forward heavily on his cane and pressing himself flush against Newton, “it’s not going to work. Please, just–” Newton straightens himself back up, agonizingly slow, dragging his ass against Hermann’s not-so-subtle erection the whole way, and Hermann whimpers.

Newton freezes.

“Hermann,” Newton whispers after a beat, one hand braced on the door, “do you…”

Oh, by Jove, let it be over. “It’s,” Hermann stammers, “I–”

The door flies open; with nothing to lean on, Newton tilts forward, and Hermann instinctively reaches out and grabs Newton’s waist with his free hand so Newton doesn’t fall flat on his face. He doesn’t think, of course, of how bad it’s going to look to whoever is on the other side: Newton bent over with his ass pressed tight against Hermann’s crotch, Hermann gripping Newton’s hip like a lifeline, how red-faced and sweaty they both are from being in such a stuffy, enclosed space for so long.

One of the Shatterdome’s janitors is looking at them with barely-concealed shock, and embarrassment, hand frozen on the doorknob. 

“Hey,” Newton says.

“Sorry, uh, Dr. Gottlieb, Dr. Geiszler,” the janitor says. “I didn’t mean to–interrupt?”

Hermann raises his eyes skyward. “We weren’t,” he begins, face heating up, “that is, we were just–”

“It’s cool,” Newton says. “Just give us, like, twenty minutes.” The janitor nods and shuts the door quickly; Hermann smacks Newton’s side, ready to yell at him for pulling whatever the  _hell_  stunt that was and locking them in once more, but Newton braces both his hands on the door this time and grinds his hips back  _deliberately_.

“Oops,” Newton says innocently.

Hermann can’t help the moan that slips out, nor the way his fingers tighten on Newton’s waist. “Newton,” he says, voice coming out far hoarser than he intended, “what are you doing?”

“Do you want me to stop?” Newton whispers, wiggling his hips. He’s breathing heavily, which is the only indicator that he’s just as effected as Hermann is. And Hermann–well, Hermann’s straining inside his trousers, and Newton’s ass is nicely-shaped and clad in  _very_ tight denim and right there, and most importantly, it’s Newton.

“Carry on,” Hermann says.


	15. time travel + big damn kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 97 and 42!
> 
> 97 Time Travel + 42 Big Damn Kiss; g/t
> 
> (got a bit kate and leopold with it lol)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175450021108/97-and-42)

The month Hermann’s spent with Newton has been interesting, to say the least. It’s not often one opens a rip in space-time (out of pure scientific curiosity, Hermann had a hypothesis to prove) and is followed back through it by something, let alone a  _someone_. Let alone a someone like  _Newton_ , who’s mad, and brash, and loud, and  _irritating_ , and wonderful and fascinating and brilliant and handsome and makes Hermann’s heart twist painfully all the same.

Newton adjusted to life in the twenty-first century from the nineteenth fairly easily, once Hermann explained to him where he was and how he got there. Newton didn’t complain when Hermann lent him clothing–which was somehow both a bit too small and a bit too big for him–and made him a bed on the small couch in his flat, and he took great delight in learning about every little technological advancement and every scientific discovery that’d come about over the near two centuries since his own time. He especially likes movies–he made Hermann sit through every single  _Godzilla_  and  _Jurassic Park_  movie and asked questions about the scientific accuracy of each the entire time–and takeaway pizza, and he managed to completely take apart and rebuild Hermann’s laptop twice, to Hermann’s horror.

(Hermann adjusted to his new house guest fairly easily as well. Perhaps adjusted  _too_ easily.)

But: all things must come to an end. Tomorrow evening the portal will reopen, according to Hermann’s precise and highly accurate calculations, and Newton will have to return to his own time or risk being trapped in Hermann’s permanently.

Hermann…is not eager to say goodbye.

He takes Newton out to a movie for their last night together and buys him all the popcorn he wants, just to see him smile. They stop and get a nice dinner on their walk back to Hermann’s flat, and it’s quiet, subdued; they scarcely say a word to each other. It’s snowing outside by the time Hermann unlocks his door for the both of them, and it’s collecting in Newton’s hair, dusting the shoulders of the thick sweater he borrowed from Hermann. Newton’s cheeks are flushed and his nose is red from the cold. Hermann swallows thickly at the sight and forces himself to look away before he does something foolish.

“This is our last night together,” Newton says, as Hermann locks the door behind them. Newton’s hands are shoved in his pockets, and he’s gazing around Hermann’s apartment. “I’m going to miss it here.”

Hermann brushes past Newton on his way to the kitchen, leans his cane against his counter and clicks the kettle on. “Would you like tea?” he says, fumbling in the cabinets for two mugs. His lip trembles; he doesn’t trust himself to face Newton. He very well may start crying.

“Mostly,” Newton continues, suddenly a lot closer than he had been a few seconds ago, “mostly, I’m going to miss  _you_. He touches Hermann’s shoulder lightly, and his voice is soft. “Hermann–”

(Don’t, Hermann thinks. It’ll be easier.)

“What if I stay?” Newton continues.

Hermann heaves a sigh, finally turns. “You have a whole life waiting for you, Newton,” he says. “Your lab. Your research. Your own  _timeline_. You can’t just–”

Newton hands are gentle when he cups the sides of Hermann’s face, and his kiss is sweet. Hermann melts into him; it’s what he’s wanted since the first time he saw Newton (confused and disoriented and shouting at Hermann to  _bring him back home_ ). “That’s true,” Newton says with a grin, “but I like you more.”

Hermann kisses him again.


	16. i didn't mean to turn you on + first time + pwp (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurleyhugo asked:  
> shit i want to request so many of those fanfiction tropes for newmnn... what about 77? or 86? or 89? or just straight up 91? dealers choice honestly everything you write is my favorite
> 
> 86 I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On + 89 First Time + 91 PWP; E/NSFW
> 
> (or: angry decontamination shower lab sex, babey !)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175482041463/shit-i-want-to-request-so-many-of-those-fanfiction)

Newt’s wanted to have sex with Hermann for a while, obviously, for  _years_ , but he always thought it’d be on a bed, or at least on the lab couch, and something deliberate, something planned meticulously and  _romantic_ , not like this, not because Newt did something fucking stupid and they had to strip and Hermann got wet and was screaming his head off at Newt and it was really, really sexy, and Newt couldn’t help but lean in close and–“Would you believe,” Newt gasps, as Hermann’s hand makes quick strokes in Newt’s soaking wet boxers, “that the explosion was an accident?” Newt tilts his head back so Hermann can suck on his throat, and he thuds it hard against the side of the decontamination shower. The water’s stopped coming at this point, but the walls are still slick, their hair and skin damp, and it’s just making it all  _hotter._

“Shut up,” Hermann hisses, biting down hard on the joint of Newt’s neck and shoulder. Newt whimpers, and his hips jerk forward violently. He tries to reach out and grope Hermann through his own soaking wet briefs–they’re white and they leave  _nothing_ to the imagination, Newt can see him straining and leaking and fuck, that’s hot–but Hermann bats him away, pushes him harder against the wall. “You ruined a  _week’s_  worth of my work, you–”

“It was!” Newt says. “I promise, it really was, I–” Hermann’s fingers tighten and he bites down harder, and Newt thinks his teeth might break skin. “Oh,  _fuck_ , Hermann,” Newt pants, “fuck, can I just–” He reaches out again and Hermann shoves his hand away this time, full-on  _growls_ , and Newt’s legs knock together.

“Don’t  _touch_  me,” Hermann says in his ear, furious, and fuck, it’s hot, “you insufferable  _bastard_ ,” Hermann twists his hand, “I don’t know why–” Hermann’s own legs are shaking–his cane’s lying in a heap with the rest of their singed and kaiju blood-splattered clothing on the lab floor–so Newt decides to do the gentlemanly thing and shove his knee between Hermann’s and grind up against his dick. Hermann’s breathing turns harsh and his eyelids flicker. “Incorrigible,” he says, but it sounds like a compliment, and he’s a little gentler when he runs his thumb across the head of Newt’s dick.

“Please,” Newt begs, “let me–” He rubs his thigh up against Hermann’s dick and reaches out again and Hermann finally lets him  _touch_ him, lets Newt grope him clumsily, lets him struggle to get past the elastic waistband.

Hermann bites down one last time on Newt’s neck and moves to kiss him instead, forcing his tongue into Newt’s mouth, and Newt moans, gives up on Hermann’s briefs and just rubs his thigh up again. “Hermann,” Newt pants against his lips as Hermann’s strokes get rougher, more frenzied, “holy shit–”

“Don’t  _ever_ ,” Hermann says, “touch my work again–” He sucks Newt’s lip into his mouth and Newt’s done, finished, and his fingers scrabble at the slick walls and he whimpers as he comes over Hermann’s hand and the inside of his boxers. Hermann ruts against him only a few more times before he seizes up and comes, too, with a groan. Newt takes Hermann’s weight easily when he slumps forward. It’s not exactly comfortable, and the water’s starting to cool on his skin and making him shiver, but Newt doesn’t complain.

“Let’s pretend this was my plan all along,” Newt says, and Hermann mumbles something in agreement.


	17. poorly timed confession + everybody knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two separate anons requested: 60 + 63
> 
> 60 Poorly Timed Confession + 63 (Everybody Knows)/Mistaken for Couple; rated g/t 
> 
> uprising can interact
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175486788918/prompt-from-here-60-poorly-timed-confession)

“It’s no surprise to anyone at this point, I suppose,” Hermann says. He folds his hands in his lap to keep himself from tapping his fingers against his knee. A nervous tic picked up from Newton in their drift. Newton watches him curiously, his chair only half a meter or so away from Hermann’s. It would be so quick, so easy, to reach out and kiss Newton and just  _show_ him what he means instead. A hands-on demonstration. But it’s important to him, to both of them, he say it aloud. "I’m very much in love with you, Newton,” Hermann says. “I have been for a long time. Years. Decades. I suspect from your very first letter. I should’ve told you before now, but I–” He swallows, forces himself to continue, to not dwell on the past and on his mistakes. “I love everything about you. Your bravery, your intelligence,” now that he’s started, he can’t bring himself to stop, “your  _stubbornness_. Even when I was furious at you, I–”

“That’s nice and romantic and all,” Newton interrupts, sounding bored, and Hermann shuts his mouth, “but it’s not going to bring him back.”

Hermann’s eyes sting. “Well,” he says bitterly, “you can’t blame me for trying.”

Newton–what used to be Newton, Hermann’s not sure how much of him is even left anymore–lolls his head lazily. He used to struggle and fight at his restraints when they first brought him here, bruise his wrists and scream at the top of his lungs, but he doesn’t anymore. Hasn’t for a while. Hermann can’t tell if that’s good or bad. Hermann stands up to leave.

“Don’t feel bad,” Newton says, grin sharp, “you almost had him that time.”


	18. stranded due to inclement weather + did they or didn't they? + i didn't mean to turn you on (mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> homesickstars asked:  
> 73, 76, and 86
> 
> 73 Stranded Due to Inclement Weather + 76 Did They or Didn’t They? + 86 I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On; rated m for did they or didn't they? (or maybe it's not rated m...wink wonk)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175493772028/73-76-and-86)

“I don’t see why an incident report is necessary,” Newt says, poking his head over Hermann’s shoulder and watching him diligently fill out the form. “It was  _barely_  even an incident.”

“We were stranded on the side of the road in Anchorage,” Hermann says, “for six hours. Without heat. I’d say that qualifies as an incident.”

“An inconvenience, at worst,” Newt says. “A teeny little one.”

“The PPDC should know if they’re giving us faulty vehicles.” Hermann ignores Newt, checks off a few more boxes. “We could’ve died.”

“Yeah,  _but_ , we didn’t.”

Hermann sighs, pulls his glasses off and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “That’s besides the point,” he says. “The point is–”

“The point is that,” Newt interrupts, then colors, “we’ll have to disclose–certain details. If we fill out an incident report, I mean.”

“Oh,” Hermann says. “ _Oh,_ ” and he blinks, sets down his pen, turns a bright shade of red, too. “Ah. I hadn’t considered–”

“They’ll want to know how our asses  _didn’t_  freeze to death,” Newt continues. “And we’ll have to–”

“Surely,” Hermann begins, “surely we won’t have to disclose  _every_ detail. We won’t have to elaborate, is what I mean. Even if we did, there’s nothing inherently…suggestive, about it. Regardless of–”

“Regardless of what happened,” Newt finishes. (It was cold, you know, and bodies produce heat, and Newt’s like a space heater already, and maybe they got a little too close and touched a little too much and maybe they couldn’t help themselves and–)

Hermann nods.

“Yeah. Good.” Newt pats Hermann’s back. “I’ll let you handle it, then.”

Hermann picks his pen back up. He clicks it open. He lowers it back to the form, and pauses, hovering an inch or so above it. He clicks it the pen closed. “On the other hand,” he says quickly, “it really was our fault for not anticipating how much gas we’d need.”

“And I should’ve brought a thicker coat,” Newt points out. “And we both should’ve checked the weather forecast.”

“You should’ve,” Hermann agrees. “We should’ve. So really–”

“So really it was  _all_  our fault,” Newt says. “Besides. I–” he looks at the ceiling, “– _enjoyed_ myself, so–I wasn’t miserable the whole time or anything.”

“Ah,” Hermann repeats, staring determinedly at the desk. “Yes. I did as well.”

They avoid each other’s eyes, still blushing. Hermann slides the half-filled form off his desk and into the garbage bin below.


	19. fake dating + detective au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I don't know if you're still doing these but 48 and 13? 
> 
> 48 Fake Dating + 13 Detective AU; rated t
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175518969218/i-dont-know-if-youre-still-doing-these-but-48)

Having a private investigator for a grad school research partner-turned-roommate isn’t as cool as Newt hoped. Hermann’s a grumpy bastard, for one thing, and not even in an aloof, sexy Humphrey Bogart-esque detective way, just a  _yells at Newt a bunch_ way, and his job has a lot less car chases and cracking open government conspiracies and a lot more fender-benders. On top of all that Hermann almost  _never_ lets Newt tag along on anything, no matter how much he begs or whines or promises to be helpful, and when he does finally bring Newt with him, it’s always for something boring. Like tonight, for example, where they’re on the lamest stakeout in history.

“It’s not a stakeout,” Hermann says. “We’re just—“

“Lurking in front of the guy’s secret lair,” Newt says. His feet are propped up on the dashboard. Mostly just because it irritates Hermann, but it is comfortable, too. “With binoculars. And coffee.”

Hermann lowers his binoculars to scowl at Newt. Newt’s not even really sure how much he can see through them in the first place, considering it’s two in the morning and everything is pretty dark except for one street lamp. For the aesthetic, maybe. Newt can appreciate that. “Please,” Hermann says, “for once in your life, be quiet. Or—“

“Or I’ll blow your cover?” Newt grins. “So you admit it’s a stakeout. And, I repeat, a really lame one.” They’ve been sitting there for four hours and absolutely nothing has happened. Hermann blew off movie night for  _this_.

“I told you,” Hermann sighs, “to just wait at home. I said you’d get bored. I said you’d be a distraction. I didn’t want you to come along in the first place.”

“And  _I_  said this whole thing would be a waste of time,” Newt counters. “Which it is.” Hermann just sniffs angrily.

The guy Hermann is tailing is—supposedly—some shady black market type called Chau, which is why they’re parked by a creepy alleyway in the first place. Unfortunately, the only picture Hermann has of Chau is blurry and taken from behind, so Newt’s not entirely sure how they’re supposed to know it’s him when they see him. Maybe if they take their glasses off and squint at anyone remotely walking away from them. Or—

“Shit,” Newt hisses, and smacks Hermann’s arm. “Hermann, someone’s leaving the building.” It could be Chau—the guy’s as big and tall as Chau in the photo—but it turns out he’s not alone. And, more distressingly, not unarmed. “ _Shit_ ,” he says again, because this changes everything and they have  _no time_ to get the hell out of there before they’re spotted, “shit, Hermann, what are we—”

Hermann grabs him by the front of his shirt and kisses him  _hard._

Newt squeaks. This is all he’s wanted for so long, all he’s dreamed of, all he’s fantasized of, and Hermann kisses  _amazing_ , even better than Newt ever imagined, and—

A car door slams, an engine starts, tires peel away, and Hermann stops kissing him, pulls away just enough that their lips are still brushing. “Have they gone?” he says, barely audible.

Newt’s brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. “Wh—?”

“I thought,” Hermann stammers, flushes, “if they thought we—”

Newt’s heart sinks. Hermann just kissed him as a distraction? There’s no sign of maybe-Chau, his henchmen, or the car that had been parked outside the building, though, so it worked, at least. Even i— “Yeah,” Newt says, doing a shitty job of hiding his disappointment. “Yeah, they’re gone.”

Hermann hasn’t moved away yet. “Maybe,” he murmurs, and cups the side of Newt’s face, bumps their noses together, “to be sure, we should—”

“Good idea,” Newt says, and tangles his fingers in Hermann’s hair as Hermann kisses him again.


	20. mutual pining + stranded due to inclement weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 53 & 73 with newmann? maybe?
> 
> 53 Mutual Pining + 73 Stranded Due to Inclement Weather; rated t
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175512962053/53-73-with-newmann-maybe)

It’s the first weekend since the spring semester started that neither of them are overwhelmed with work, which means Newton is insistent on them spending as much time together as possible. Hermann, ordinarily, wouldn’t object, but Newton has decided they absolutely have to go to some outdoor cafe that’s just opened up a mile or so away from their flat. He ended up there last weekend on a quote-unquote boredom walk, when Hermann had been out of town at a conference, and he hasn’t shut up about the sandwich he got there since.

Hermann doesn’t have strong feelings either way about sandwiches or cafes, but he does have strong feelings about going for walks when there’s an 80% chance of rain.

“I’ll bring an umbrella,” Newton insists. “Come on, they’ve been calling for it all week and there’s been jack shit.”

When Hermann gives him a skeptical look, Newton waves his little travel umbrella around obnoxiously until Hermann sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Just don’t get us lost.”

Newton scoffs, as if dragging Hermann somewhere and ultimately getting them lost for several hours is a bizarre and impossible occurrence, as if it didn’t happen with the farmer’s market in the fall, or last year with the karaoke bar Hermann still isn’t sure actually exists. “Just give me five secs,” Newton says, smiling at him, before dashing off to his bedroom for something.

Their living arrangement has earned them no little teasing from their colleagues, but after some five years sharing a lab with the man, Hermann–God help him–couldn’t imagine living anywhere Newton wasn’t. Newton felt the same, evidently, because he’d been the one to  _suggest_  they move in together. Which had been perfect: Hermann got the situation he wanted without having to be the one to show his hand. And Newton is a surprisingly good roommate, now that the threat of world destruction isn’t hanging over their heads; he’s a better cook than Hermann, he keeps his mess confined to his bedroom, he doesn’t play music too loudly past an unreasonable hour.

He does, however, have this against him.

“Okay,” Newton says, his bedroom door clicking shut behind him. “You ready?”

Hermann considers for a moment, and then tugs his parka down off the coat hook. “Yes.”

Newton makes a face. “It’s too warm for that, dude, you’re gonna get all sweaty.”

“And when it rains,” Hermann says, gesturing to Newton’s standard thin white button-up, “you’re going to freeze.”  
  
“If,” Newton grumbles, shoving the travel umbrella into one of the myriad of Hermann’s pockets and then holding his arm out for Hermann to take.

“When,” Hermann says cheerfully, looping his arm through Newton’s proffered one. It’s not necessary, in the slightest–Hermann’s cane is more than adequate–but Hermann likes the closeness, and he suspects Newton does too, and it’s easier for Newton to lead this way. Domesticity, he thinks, and then pushes the word away.

The walk is nice, despite the overcast sky hinting at rain. Hermann will give him that. It’s not crowded, meaning they can talk as loudly and freely as they wish, and trees are blooming along the sidewalk, and every now and then they catch a hint of birdsong. Hermann doesn’t recognize any of the street names, so he suspects that Newton’s gone out of his way to pick the most scenic route possible.

It is…quite lovely. He leans a little more heavily into Newton under the guise of fatigue, and Newton jumps a bit–nervousness. Hermann pretends he didn’t notice. “How much further away are we?” he says.

“Oh. Uh. Not far.” Newton cranes his head around. The street they’ve reached is full of small businesses: a florist, an antique store, a secondhand bookshop. “I think it’s just–” He spins to look at the street sign on an intersecting road, taking Hermann with him, and frowns. “Uh. Don’t hate me, but–”

Hermann tries his hardest to look irritated, but really he’s just amused. “I  _see_.”

“Stop being all smug,” Newton huffs. “Like you’ve never gotten us lost before.”

And then the sky opens up.

“I told you,” Hermann says, flipping his hood up coolly. It’s a freezing rain, too, carrying the last remnants of winter, and Newton is shivering before even a minute has passed.

“Oh my god, shut  _up_ ,” Newton says, dragging him to the front of one of the little shops, where they’re offered some respite from the rain by a small awning above the door. He tugs on the handle to no avail–locked. Hermann, comfortable and dry in his jacket, points wordlessly to the ‘closed’ sign. A quick glance around reveals similar signs in the windows of the florist and the bookshop.

“Fuck,” he says, “good thing I brought an umbrella, right, always planning ahead. The Newt Geiszler method.” He reaches into Hermann’s pocket, pulls it out, goes to slide it open and–

“It’s broken,” he says miserably, tossing it with vengeance into a nearby trash can. “Why do we even still  _have this_.” He pulls off his glasses, wipes them off on his shirt, and squints at the still-foggy lenses. “Great,” he sighs, shoving them back on anyway. “Man, this  _sucks_.”

Newton–short, loud, ridiculous Newton–is drenched, scowling, shivering, can’t see through his own glasses, his tattoos are showing through the fabric of his shirt, and Hermann has never loved anyone as much as he loves him in that moment. The knowledge hits him like a shock wave, and he nearly staggers with it. "Newton–” he says before he can stop himself, because it is imperative that Newton know immediately, but Newton looks up at him miserably and Hermann thinks maybe now is  _not_  the time. He unzips his parka with his free hand instead, smiling because it’s all falling into place and he can’t help it–he loves solving a puzzle. “Oh, come here, you absurd little man.”

“What?” Newton says. He’s shivering.

“You’re soaked,” Hermann says, but he has to raise his voice to be heard over the rain pounding away on the awning above their heads. “Get over here.”

Newton inches forward until he’s pressed up tight against Hermann, his shirt already dripping onto Hermann’s dry sweater, and Hermann–with some difficulty–zips the parka over over both of them. It’s  _very_  snug, and a little damp, and Newton’s arms are more or less pinned at his sides, but Newton must certainly appreciate being moderately drier. “This thing is, like, comically big,” Newton says, voice muffled by Hermann’s chest. He squirms around until he’s comfortable.

“Better?” Hermann says, smiling down fondly at him.

Newton’s cheeks are turning pink. Hermann can feel Newton’s heart thudding. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks, Hermann. Sorry I got us stranded out here.”

“We’ll find somewhere when the rain stops,” Hermann says. He’s in no hurry, and judging by the way Newton rests his head on Hermann’s shoulder, neither is he.


	21. sick fic + huddling for warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 27 & 74!
> 
> 27 Sick Fic + 74 Huddling for Warmth; rated g/t
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175577541688/27-74)

There’s something spreading around the Shatterdome, as illnesses are wont to do in enclosed bases where hardly any of the occupants get regular sunlight. Hermann has not only the misfortune of picking it up somehow but the even further misfortune of Newton Geiszler deciding to play nursemaid. 

“It’s boring as shit without you in the lab,” Newton explains as he barges into Hermann’s  _personal_  quarters exactly one hour into Hermann’s sick leave, immediately taking over Hermann’s desk with an armful of journals and—Hermann notes with a certain amount of distress—suspiciously blue-splattered papers. “I can’t get anything done without you yelling at me, so I’m not leaving until you’re back to your usual healthy asshole self.” He collapses heavily into Hermann’s desk chair and kicks off his boots. “For the good of humanity.”

“No,” Hermann rasps, glaring at Newton with watery eyes. “Absolutely not. Leave. You’ll only make me worse.”

“C’mon, Hermann,” Newton scoffs, “I’m a  _doctor_ , I know what I’m doing.” He zips open the small knapsack he brought with him (adorned with a staggering amount of patches), yanks out a massive bag of cough drops and an unopened box of tissues, then throws them directly at Hermann’s chest.

Hermann lets him stay, mostly just because he’s too exhausted to put up a decent fight. And he really does need those tissues.

That was three days ago. Since then, three pairs of Newton’s boxers, Newton’s shampoo, Newton’s bath towel, an almost assuredly stolen PPDC sleeping bag, and Newton’s toothbrush have also migrated to various spots around Hermann’s quarters. Hermann did, however, draw the line at Newton’s attempts to drag in multiple—sterilized! he insisted—specimens as well, which means that Newton’s moved on to filling out long-overdue reports instead.

“Hey,” Newton says, with a little prod to Hermann’s shoulder, “you up?”

Hermann groans miserably into his pillow.

“Good, you are,” Newton continues, and Hermann begrudgingly rolls to face him. He’s chewing on the end of a pen in thought; Hermann hopes it’s one Newton brought with him and not one he found in Hermann’s desk. “How would you describe the sound that kaiju stomach made when I poked it with that big iron rod last week?”

“Disgusting,” Hermann offers, and sneezes violently. “Viscerally repulsive.”

“Not objective enough,” Newton says, and taps his pen against his cheek. “Unless you don’t mind if I quote you on that. I’ll cite you and all. Or…”

Newton’s words are getting distant, hazy, and Hermann’s having difficulty concentrating. Concern suddenly flashes across Newton’s face. He stops talking and tosses his pen and the report aside. “Hermann,” he says, “you’re shivering.”

“Am I?” Hermann says, and realizes Newton’s right. He’s cold, trembling with chills in a nauseatingly feverish way, and not even the two blankets Newton delicately arranged him in are helping. He watches in the same fog as Newton stands up, shucks off his shirt and tie and jeans into a pile on the floor, strips himself down his boxers, socks, and undershirt. What is he doing? Making a mess, for one thing. “Please fold those,” Hermann mumbles, and sneezes again.   
  
The bedclothes lift. Newton, warm and soft, slides in under them and next to him and wraps his arms around Hermann tight. What is he  _doing_? “What—?” Hermann begins.

“You know,” Newton says. He sounds embarrassed. “Taking care of you. Uh. If that’s okay? You  _were_  shivering, and you looked—cold.”

Hermann feels as if he should at least try to put up a token protest, but Newton’s body is too close and wonderful and—like before—Hermann’s too exhausted to argue with him. Hermann could very well fall asleep right now, except isn’t Newton worried about germs? “You’ll get sick, too.”

“Nah,” Newton says. “I mean, I might, but I don’t really care.” There’s a gentle little brush on the top of Hermann’s head that Hermann could almost mistake for a kiss, if Newton kissing him wasn’t  _completely_ out of the realm of possibility. “Better?” Newton murmurs.

Hermann presses his face into the crook of Newton’s neck and wraps his arms around him in return. He still trembles with chills, but not as badly as before—as Hermann’s illness-addled brain is fond of pointing out, Newton is  _very_  warm. And, of course, half-nude, which makes Hermann feel warm for other reasons. He’s far too tired to consider making any moves on his lab partner right now, however. “Yes,” Hermann says sleepily, and closes his eyes, enjoys the sensation of being in Newton’s arms. “Thank you, Newton.”

“For the good of humanity,” Newton reminds him, and shuts off the light.


	22. coming out fic + dance of romance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> if you're still doing the mashup fic thing: 37 & 43
> 
> 37 Coming Out Fic + 43 Dance of Romance; g/t
> 
> (aka newt and hermann dicking around at a wedding)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175592832488/if-youre-still-doing-the-mashup-fic-thing-37)

Newt usually hates formal events—having to dress up, pay attention to boring shit and pretend that he’s interested in whatever is going on, make  _small talk_ —but he’s never really minded weddings. But not because of any sentimental reasons. “It’s the open bar,” Newt explains to Hermann (who—unlike Newt—is having an pretty unpleasant time), gesturing happily to his third piña colada of the evening. It’s just nice to be able to imbibe himself with as many elaborate fruity drinks as he wants and have someone else cover his tab. Even if he’s pretty sure the bartender has been giving him virgin drinks this whole time—that, or they’re just weak as shit.

They’re at the wedding of some mild-mannered j-tech Hermann spoke to probably once in the Jaeger Academy. Technically Newt wasn’t invited, Hermann was, Newt never even saw the guy before he watched him walk down the aisle today, but Hermann was way too polite (or maybe just too socially graceless) to think of a good excuse as to why he couldn’t go, so he RSVPed yes and then begged Newt to come along as his plus one. (“Your company is still  _barely_  tolerable,” Hermann made sure to remind Newt after Newt enthusiastically accepted, “but it’s somewhat more so than sitting alone all night at the reception.”)

“Obviously,” Hermann says, and rolls his eyes. “Forgive me for assuming you to be even remotely a romantic.”

“I’m romantic,” Newt says, jabbing in Hermann’s general direction with the tiny umbrella that came in his drink to accentuate his point. “I’m very romantic. I’m a regular fucking Casanova, dude. Look—”

He tosses the umbrella to the table and gets to his feet. Hermann eyes him suspiciously, like he’s about to propose to Hermann or punch him in the face or something. “What are you doing?”

“Proving to you how romantic I am,” Newt says, and holds out his hand with a dramatic flourish. “ _Dance_  with me, Hermann.”

“No,” Hermann splutters, “I will not—”

It’s meant to be a joke, obviously, of course, a challenge, because the DJ’s playing some shitty early aughts hit that Newt remembers vividly from his teenage years—which doesn’t exactly conjure up romance—but in the time it takes Hermann to process the request and react to it, the song has changed to some Sinatra song that is, decidedly, much more romantic.  _Not_ what Newt was going for. But: he’s already here. He’s gotta follow through. “Nervous my sweet moves will win your heart?” he says.

“Nervous you’ll trip and break something,” Hermann corrects. “The  _something_  being me in this situation. I remember last New Year’s, Newton, even if  _you_ were too inebriated to.”

“But I’m super sober now, soooo,” Newt says, because those piña coladas were definitely virgin. “Anyway, what kind of date would I be if I didn’t dance with you at least once?”

“There’s a difference,” Hermann says, cheeks flaming, but he’s taken Newt’s hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet as well, “between a plus one and a  _date_. Date implies—”

“I know what date implies,” Newt says, and winks, grins, and is pleased to see Hermann get a little flustered. 

Hermann has to lean pretty heavily on Newt to stay upright comfortably without the aid of his cane, so it takes a little maneuvering to get themselves in the right place. They can’t adopt an accurate waltz position or anything, not that either of them can waltz, but they manage well enough with Newt’s hands on Hermann’s lower back and Hermann’s tight around Newt’s shoulders, their chests pressed together. Middleschool slow dance style, but just that little bit racier. (Nevermind that Newt skipped over middleschool.)

They sway in place, a bit awkwardly, at first, but as the song goes on they become more comfortable with each other and Hermann settles his head against Newt’s shoulder. The lighting in the reception hall is dark, kind of blueish, and with Hermann so close and the music so soft it’s weirdly intimate.

Predictably, it makes Newt panic.

“Hey,” he says quietly, poking Hermann in the back.

Hermann startles, lifts his head a little. “Hm?”

There’s a man and a woman across the dance floor from them locked in some  _pretty_ heavy PDA. Like, it looks like the dude’s eating her face off. Newt thinks he might be one of the groomsmen. Newt rotates them carefully and as inconspicuously as possible so that Hermann can see, too, and hopefully join Newt in making fun of them. “Look at those assholes,” he says.

He expects Hermann to sniff disapprovingly, or maybe scold Newt for being immature, but to Newt’s surprise, Hermann  _snorts._

It’s  _cute._ And it just encourages Newt. And gives him a little idea. He’s never been totally sure on Hermann’s sexuality—it never came up in their letters to each other, and their current relationship doesn’t lend itself to many heart-to-heart conversations—but there’s no way someone who dresses and acts like Hermann can be heterosexual. (Wishful thinking, a little part of Newt’s brain whispers, and Newt ignores it.) “Straight people are the  _worst_ ,” Newt says.

He doesn’t miss the long, purposeful look Hermann gives him. “They are,” he agrees, mouth creeping up into a smile, and Newt thinks  _score!_

It might be more wishful thinking, but Newt swears Hermann’s arms tighten even more around him. Newt takes another leap. “We should make out,” Newt suggests, lowering his voice, “to show them what it’s like. Teach them a lesson, you know.”

Hermann’s quiet for a long time. Newt thinks he may have blown it, but then Hermann smiles at him. “A logical proposition,” he says. He angles Newt in for a kiss.


	23. coming out fic + dance of romance MINI SEQUEL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> ok but in that wedding fic, hermann is definitely the one who accidentally catches the bouquet and turns BRIGHT RED and starts stammering about how he doesn't believe in that superstition but also refuses to look newt in the eye for the next fifteen minutes
> 
> me: OH MY GOD……..OH MY GOD YES…….ok sorry i had to write something short for this because it’s so cute thank u for sending this in
> 
> (g)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175622316168/ok-but-in-that-wedding-fic-hermann-is-definitely)

“Good catch,” Newt says, as Hermann stares at the ceiling and steadfastly avoids making any and all eye contact with him. Flower petals litter the white tablecloth and the tiled floor below; Hermann’s shredded a good deal of the bouquet between his fingers, seemingly without even realizing it. Hermann says nothing. Newt takes that as a go-ahead. “You know,” Newt continues, “there’s a superstition—”

“Yes, thank you, Newton,” Hermann cuts across quickly. “I am  _very_  aware.”  
  
“Are you?” Newt grins.   
  
“And it’s just as you said,” Hermann says. “A superstition. Nonsense. Er.”  
  
“Based on an outdated culture of heteronormativity?” Newt suggests.  
  
“Precisely,” Hermann says, and sniffs.  
  
“I don’t know,” Newt says, and knocks their shoulders together, smiles, and Hermann’s cheeks go pink, “I like to think there might be some truth to it.”


	24. time travel + pwp (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kizunachaos asked:  
> 97 + 91? pretty please if you're still doing it?
> 
> 97 Time Travel + 91 PWP; E/NSFW
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175620071478/97-91-pretty-please-if-youre-still-doing-it)

“Isn’t it weird,” Newt says, and grunts as he thrusts his hips forward, “that it’s a me from just a year from now? I mean, what are the odds of that? One in—well, hopefully a healthy eighty-something, at least, assuming we don’t get wiped out by— _fuck—_ kaiju, and—”

“Not  _now_ , Newton,” Hermann cuts in, but moans helplessly as Newt licks up the back of his neck and rolls his hips in particularly deep. “ _Ah_ —”

“It is weird,” future Newt pants, pushing his hips back to fuck himself on Hermann’s cock. “My entire—oh—my entire lifespan to choose from, and—”

“Not complaining, though,” Newt says. He tightens his grip on Hermann’s thigh and starts thrusting into him faster, and Hermann’s little whines get louder, higher. Hermann’s almost never this overwhelmed when they have sex, and he’s tight and he’s squeezing down hard around Newt’s cock and it’s  _pretty_  hot. Newt noses and kisses behind his ear.

“Not at all,” other Newt agrees, his own fingers stroking up and down Hermann’s bad leg where it’s hoisted up over other Newt’s thighs as he pushes back in against Hermann in a steady rhythm.

Hermann makes a sound like a dying man. “Oh,  _Newton_ ,” he moans, “oh—”

“Which one?” Newt and Newt joke in unison, and Hermann makes another sound so pretty that Newt ( _him_ Newt, Newt in back) has to tug him into a kiss.

“Go harder,” he breathes into Newt’s mouth, “please, both of you.” The other Newt makes a little noise, too, turns his head back to see what’s going on, and Hermann leans forward and kisses him messily instead, their tongues sliding together, and they moan into each other’s mouths.

“Oh wow,” Newt squeaks, watching them raptly, because is that really what it looks like when he kisses Hermann? Shit, fuck, that’s hot. He mouths across Hermann’s shoulder and rolls his hips in deeper, watching as Hermann’s mouth goes slack with pleasure, as the other Newt sucks on his lip. He—that Newt, that is—catches him-Newt’s eye over his shoulder and winks at him, then moans exaggeratedly as he rolls back on Hermann’s cock again.

Hermann’s sweating and trembling all over, and his breath’s hitching higher and higher as he’s pushed back and forth between them, sandwiched tight between their bodies. “Is that good, Hermann?” the Newt in front cries, and he lets go of Hermann’s leg to start jerking himself off furiously. Hermann just whimpers. His head drops back against Newt’s shoulder, and Newt just has to catch one glimpse of those dark eyes and blown pupils and fluttering lashes before he gives one last hard thrust into Hermann and comes with a shout.

“Oh,  _shit_ ,” the Newt in front also shouts, and Newt sees his strokes around his—their?—cock speed up, “is it—shit—is it weird if I think I sound hot? Oh, fuck, goddamn,  _Hermann_ —“ He grinds back against Hermann—who looks like he’s on the verge of passing out from pleasure, and making noises that are barely even audible—and Newt watches come spurt over his fist. Hermann gives a weak little groan as he squeezes tight around Newt’s softening dick, and the Newt in front whimpers in a way that lets Newt know that Hermann’s just come, too.

They lay in a little heap, panting, the Newt in front still swearing under his breath, and Newt—him Newt—massages Hermann’s side gently. “Hey,” he says, “Hermann. You good, dude?”

Hermann mumbles something out, and nuzzles against the neck of the Newt in front. He slings an arm over that Newt’s waist protectively. “Man,” that Newt says, “I forgot how cuddly he gets when I’m really awesome at sex. We. When we’re really awesome at sex. Nice job, us.” He holds his hand up for a high-five.

“ _Awesome_  job, us,” Newt says, accepting the high-five, and slips out of Hermann. He sees the Newt in front adjust himself and Hermann similarly, and together they settle Hermann—still flushed and breathing heavily—onto his back, and snuggle up against him on each respective side.

“Wish my Hermann could’ve come along, too,” the future Newt laments, tracing little circles on Hermann’s chest. “That’d be even hotter.” He stops and grins at Newt across Hermann. “Hey, remember that dream we had—?”

“With the three Hermanns?”

“Yeah,” other Newt says wistfully.

“Five minutes,” Hermann sighs, eyes closed. “It’s all I ask of you. Five minutes of silence.”

“Is Hermann of the future still a  _dick_?” Newt says, and Hermann swats at his arm.


	25. almost kiss + mistaken for couple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Mashup fic; 40 and 63
> 
> 40 Almost Kiss + 63 Everybody Knows/(Mistaken For Couple); t
> 
> (aka newt and hermann dicking around at a halloween party)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175626454143/mashup-fic-40-and-63)

Hermann is surprised that Newton chose to tag along when Hermann begged off mingling with the rest of the party to retreat to the outskirts of the room, but he really shouldn’t be—as much as Hermann complains about Newton and Newton complains about Hermann, he and Newton rarely go anywhere without each other, whether it’s to the mess hall or out and around Hong Kong or to Shatterdome events like this one. Newton is hardly more popular around the base than Hermann is, anyway, so it’s not as if he has a multitude of friends he could be socializing with instead of sitting in this nicely deserted corner with Hermann.

Still: Hermann feels secretly pleased that Newton’s willingly chosen to remain in his company, and though they’ve argued for most of the night, it’s been light, fond, all over ridiculous things. After one cup of heavily spiked punch apiece, Newton slings his arm over Hermann’s shoulder; after two, Hermann rests his hand on Newton’s knee. “No,” Newton says, shouting to be heard over the loud electronic music blaring through the loudspeakers, “no, you’re  _wrong_ , they only blew up the shark in the first Jaws movie. They set it on fire in the sequel. I think.”

“It’s a  _shark_ ,” Hermann says. “You can’t set it on fire. It lives in the water.”

“It comes out of the water,” Newton says, “and then they set it on fire. The chief does. Or maybe his son or something.”

 “Why didn’t it—” Newton frowns, and Hermann leans in closer so Newton can hear him more easily. “Why didn’t it simply go back underwater, then? Extinguish the flames? If the shark is intelligent enough to hold a grudge,  _surely_  it can—” Hermann gestures too wildly and the rest of his punch upends itself on Newton’s Halloween costume shirt. Hermann blinks as the bright pink slowly spreads across the fabric, staining the gold. “Oh, bugger,” he says.

Newton laughs, grin wide and bright, and Hermann’s heart leaps. “It’s cool, dude,” Newton says. He takes Hermann’s newly empty red plastic cup and stands up; Hermann feels upsettingly bereft without Newton hanging over him anymore. “I’ll get you a refill when I get napkins,” Newton says, and squeezes through the mass of bodies in the center of the room to get to the snack table.

A couple of techs Hermann recognizes from LOCCENT—friends of Tendo, he believes—dressed as vampires have been hanging out a short distance away from them all night, and as Hermann stares around the room to entertain himself until Newton returns, he accidentally catches their eye. They wave at him amicably; Hermann finds himself in uncharacteristically high spirits tonight, so he waves back.

“Hey!” one of them calls over at Hermann. “Since when have you and Geiszler been a thing?”

“Pardon?” Hermann says. Hermann was under the impression that his working partnership with Newton was common knowledge throughout the Shatterdome. They’re the only k-science experts remaining on the base, after all.

“Since when have you and Geiszler,” the man repeats, “been a  _thing_?”

The raised eyebrows and deliberate emphasis on  _thing_  is not lost on Hermann this time. He colors. “Ah,” Hermann says, “we’re not—”

Newton re-emerges from the crowd with two new cups of punch in his hands, waving them happily at Hermann, and Hermann immediately drops the conversation. Newton settles the cups down on the table before he takes his seat back, swinging his arm over Hermann’s shoulder once more. He’s managed to mop up some of the spill from his Starfleet uniform shirt, but there’s still a large splotch tinged pink. “I’m sorry, Newton,” Hermann says, eyeing it mournfully, “I ruined your costume.”

Newton waves him off. “Seriously, dude, it’s cool. It was like, super cheap. Actually—” To Hermann’s shock, Newton suddenly grabs at the fabric and tugs violently, ripping a hole where the stain is. He hadn’t been lying about the fabric being cheap. “There,” Newton says, evidently satisfied. “Now it’s even more accurate. Kirk’s always getting his shirt ripped off.”

Newton’s tattoos are peeking through the hole. Hermann can’t help but ogle the bit of chest he sees there. He realizes Newton’s saying something to him a second too late. “Hm?” Hermann says, pulling his eyes away quickly.

Newton’s smiling warmly at him. “I said,” he says, “I think you’re right, they  _do_  explode the shark in the second one too.”

Oh, of course—their argument. Hermann can’t find it in himself to care much about it anymore, not with the words of the LOCCENT techs echoing about in his head (he and Newton a  _thing_ , a  _couple_ , isn’t that a thought?) and with Newton’s colorful, soft-looking skin within reach, and Newton’s speaking again, but Hermann’s too caught up in watching his lips move. They look as nice and soft as his skin. Hermann—well, he thinks he would very much like to kiss him. “Hermann?” Newton says faintly as Hermann settles his hand back on Newton’s knee. He leans in—

But Newton misinterprets, thinks Hermann’s falling and moves forward as if to catch him, and Hermann misses Newton’s lips entirely and one of the fake plastic Vulcan ears Newton forced Hermann into just crashes against the glass of Newton’s glasses. “Easy, Hermann, I got you,” Newton laughs, and steadies Hermann upright. “I’m glad I kept these on,” he says, and taps at his glasses, “or my eye would be hurting like a bitch right now. How much punch did you  _have_?”

“Ah,” Hermann stammers, bright red and shame-faced. “Thank you, Newton.”


	26. awful first meeting + bed sharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: This is basically canon but 56?
> 
> Anonymous said: if you're still doing the prompts, 36, 42, 75, and/or 85 (any mashup or individual!) for newmann? absolutely love your writing! <3
> 
> 56 Awful First Meeting + 75 Bed Sharing; g/t
> 
> (ok so i thought it’d be fun to combine each of these requests into one incredibly chaotic 2017-era fic, but it turned out angstier than i intended it to)
> 
> [Link text](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175652317018/ok-so-i-thought-itd-be-fun-to-combine-each-of)

Newt had been aiming for  _big romantic gesture_ , at the time. Something sweet. Thoughtful. A natural progression from what was  _definitely_  going to be a fantastic first meeting in the middle of the conference hall, where he and Hermann would announce their undying love for each other and Newt would dip him into a kiss and then they’d make tender love all night, and promise each other their hearts, or maybe elope or something. Newt’s fantasies varied. And Hermann had been more than happy to agree to Newt’s proposal when Newt emailed him about it, because it was just more  _cost effective_ for the both of them and saved them each a lot of hassle. And there was the underlying implication both danced around, of course–the fact that, once they met, they would almost definitely be headed to the same hotel room anyway so they may as well just cut out the middle man and awkward “mine or yours?” conversation.

As it is: their first meeting is not fantastic.

“One of us,” Newt says, as they sit on opposite sides of the bed, staring at opposite walls on opposite sides of their single hotel room, “is going to have to have to sleep on the floor.”

“One of us is going to have to change  _rooms_ ,” Hermann corrects. “Seeing as this was your  _scheme_ in the first place, it seems only fair that–”

“ _My_ scheme?” Newt scoffs, and turns angrily. “You agreed to it! You’re the one who said it sounded like a,” he puts on a terrible approximation of Hermann’s accent, “ _spectacular idea_.”

Hermann turns angrily, too. They glare at each other. Hermann is stupidly attractive even now, even though Newt knows that their friendship (or whatever the hell it was) is effectively over and Hermann hates him because he’s a disappointment or annoying or all of the above and Newt can’t even blame him for it because he knows he  _is_ a disappointment and  _is_ annoying. “I did not–”

Newt regrets what he says before it’s even out of his mouth (because projecting, much?). “Just because you wanted to get into my pants too bad to actually–”

“Don’t be immature,” Hermann snaps, cheeks flaming, “I didn’t want to get–” He stops talking, snatches his cane from where it’s leaning against the bedside table and gets to his feet unsteadily. “ _Fine._  I’ll change rooms.”

“Fine!” Newt repeats, and also jumps to his feet. He crosses the room in quick strides and yanks open the door. “Here!” He picks up Hermann’s suitcase and holds it out to him. 

“Good!” Hermann says, and snatches the suitcase too, marches out the door. Before he gets so much as a foot, he loses his tenseness, slumps a bit, and when he looks back over his shoulder, he’s not glaring anymore. He almost looks sad. “Newton–”

“Yeah?” Newt says quickly, hating himself for how goddamn hopeful he sounds. Maybe Hermann’s had a change of heart. Maybe he isn’t going to leave after all, and they can restart the whole night, and Newt can actually be polite when he introduces himself (he’d been so nervous, talking too fast and touching Hermann’s hand too much, he definitely made Hermann uncomfortable) and maybe Hermann won’t be so cold (he was probably just nervous  _too_ , he probably didn’t mean to be a dick, Newt didn’t have to jump the gun like that), Newt can just apologize right now and it’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, but he waits too long and Hermann says nothing either and starts walking away again.

Newt watches him go until he disappears around the corner, and then he shuts the door and collapses miserably on the bed he thought he’d be sharing with Hermann. “Good,” Newt says to no one, and wipes at his eyes.


	27. fairy tale au + locked in a room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so. i was filling prompts and im a fool and accidentally wrote 25 + 70 instead of 26 + 70 BUT it came out cute and i liked it so i’m going to post it anyway. pretend i prompted myself?
> 
> 25 Fairy Tale AU + 70 Locked in a Room; g
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175647322338/ok-so-i-was-filling-prompts-and-im-a-fool-and)

“I don’t see why it’s so weird,” Newt says. “You’re heard of frog princes before, right? Nobody has any trouble kissing them.”

“Well,  _naturally_  I’ve heard of them,” Hermann says. His arms are folded in his lap. “I’ve simply never heard of—”

“Never heard of what?” Newt says defensively.

“I’ve simply never heard of a  _newt_ prince before.”

If Newt had his human body, he would glare. As it is, he thinks he manages to achieve the effect of mildly upset. Hermann looks apologetic. “I’m still an amphibian,” Newt says. “It’s the same family. The same principle. You’d still be kissing something weird and small and kinda slimy.” It’s not Newt’s fault the witch his dad pissed off had a sense of humor.

Hermann hums in thought. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, and sighs, casts a glance at his study door. “It’s not as if I have anything to do in the meanwhile.” He—a little awkwardly, but carefully nonetheless—picks Newt up from the surface of his desk in his sturdy hands.

Newt’s  _thrilled_. He’s had a crush on the kingdom’s resident reclusive, grumpy astronomer for what feels like years, and pretty much resigned himself to lurking in the guy’s potted plants and pining from afar. Then—as luck would have it—Hermann locked himself in his own study, and Newt saw the perfect chance to introduce himself without possibility of Hermann getting weirded out and immediately fleeing. “I’m a really cute prince,” Newt says, his little amphibian heart beating embarrassingly fast as Hermann raises him up slowly. “I promise it’s worth it.”

But Hermann stops once they’re eye level and looks over Newt’s body curiously. “You have such odd markings for a newt,” he says, and runs the tip of his finger over Newt’s back and the swirling colors Newt knows are there. “A human turned newt, that is.”

“I had tattoos when I was human,” Newt says. “Or. I  _have_  tattoos when I  _am_  human.”

“Tattoos,” Hermann says, sounding unimpressed. “Of course you do.” But he leans in and kisses Newt very, very gently on the mouth.

The change is instantaneous. Newt—now a full-sized human and (assuredly) very cute prince again—crashes from Hermann’s hands to the floor below and lands directly on his ass.

Hermann looks down at him, frozen in his chair. His mouth is hanging open. “Oh, awesome,” Newt says, and stands up, dusts himself off. It feels weird to have an actual body again, and it’s definitely going to take a while before he gets used to it. He’s glad his clothing also made the transition from prince to newt to back to prince again, not because he’d be standing naked in Hermann’s cottage otherwise (he can’t see why  _that_ would be a problem), but because he’s blind as shit without his glasses.

“Newton?” Hermann says. “Er—your highness?”

“Newton’s fine,” Newt says, and grins, “only my mother calls me your highness.” He puts his hands on his hips and poses. “So? Worth it?”

“Well,” Hermann says, and he’s very obviously checking Newt out, “you weren’t lying about being cute, at least.”


	28. royal au + innocent physical contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> you are amazing! I can't stop smiling. Please please please #2 and #85
> 
> 2 Royal AU + 85 Innocent Physical Contact
> 
> so i’m on a big fairy tale au kick at the moment (i wrote those two fairy tale esque prompts and it Really got me in the mood) so i decided to take “royal au” to mean “rapunzel but it’s hermann” and got a little pastichey (and sappy) with it
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175680552473/you-are-amazing-i-cant-stop-smiling-please)

The grandfather clock strikes quarter to midnight. Newton is due any moment now, and Hermann is beside himself with anticipation. It’s been too long since their last rendezvous, too long since he’s seen the face of the man he loves, too long since he’s kissed him. Only a week, but one week without Newton feels like an eternity.

There’s a fire in the hearth, and Hermann’s set their tea down in front of it. Back when Newton first started coming, Hermann hid an extra teacup away under the guise of having shattered it. Now he sets it out each time Newton is due to visit, and Hermann’s father remains none the wiser. Hermann does not expect they will drink the tea, though; they have more pressing matters to attend to.

It’s through no choice of their own that they’ve been separated this long. Hermann may be a prince, but he is powerless to the wishes of his king father, and the wishes of his father dictate he be trapped and locked away from the rest of the world at the top of this tower. Though vines curl up the sides–which Newton proves can be climbed–there is no way Hermann could make it down on his own with his leg. (His father’s threats of finding Hermann a wife, meanwhile, have become more frequent, more furious.)

Newton’s been hard at work too, he knows, researching and building and creating. Hermann has had the pleasure of watching Newton work before, on the rare occasion that Newton can manage to carry his work up with him: his sleeves rolled up, exposing the ink on his forearms; his soft hair mussed; his glasses, thick and oversized, sliding down his nose; his single-minded focus. Of course, it’s even more of a pleasure when that focus is fixed on Hermann.

Hermann gets so lost in thoughts of Newton that he hardly notices the tapping just outside until it picks up in force. For a moment, his heart leaps–it  _must_ be Newton–but to his dismay he realizes it’s merely begun to storm. Quite hard, in fact. Rain lashes at the windows and wind howls, and dread settles like a cold weight in Hermann’s stomach. Will Newton still come? Will he be caught in the storm if he does? Slip and fall on the treacherous climb up?

Hermann watches the grandfather clock. Ten minutes to midnight. Five. Five minutes past. Ten minutes past. And then–

Rapping at the window pane, louder and yet more gentle. Hermann goes to it as fast as he can and tugs it open at once, and there is Newton, clinging to the windowsill, drenched and grinning sheepishly. He hoists himself up and inside just as thunder begins to rumble, and Hermann quickly latches the window shut before he turns his full attention to Newton.

Newton is in disarray, which is hardly new. His clothes are soaking wet and stained with dirt from the vines he’d climbed. His hair is plastered to his head. His glasses are fogged up. His little cravat is askew. He’s the most marvelous thing Hermann has ever seen. When Newton opens his arms, Hermann drops his cane and falls into them, wet clothing be damned.

“I feared you wouldn’t come,” he sighs, between pressing kisses to Newton’s damp cheeks, his soft lips.

Newton laughs into his mouth. “Of course I came,” he says. “When have I not?” Hermann slides a hand up the back of his head and kisses him deeper, and it’s only then he realizes Newton is shivering. He pulls away quickly.

“Oh, Newton,” he frets, and moves to divest Newton of his waistcoat and ruined cravat. “You must be freezing.” Newton does not protest as Hermann strips him down to his underthings, guides him to the solitary armchair in front of the fireplace, wraps him in the softest blanket from his bed. Hermann hangs Newton’s clothing up to dry on the fireplace grate and steals another kiss once he’s sure Newton has been sufficiently warmed. “Better?”

Newton nods. He looks at Hermann, a bit sleepily.

“Good,” Hermann says, and cuffs him on the back of the head. “You’re an idiot,” he snaps.

“ _What_?” Newton’s mouth hangs open.

“Wandering about in a storm like  _this_ ,” Hermann continues, “and climbing up the wall anyway. You could’ve fallen! You could’ve–caught pneumonia!” He pointedly does not let on how frantically he watched the clock, how he jumped at every sound at his window that could hint at Newton’s arrival.

Newton looks affronted. “I know you’re too busy staring up at the heavens to know this, Hermann,” he snaps in return, “but you can’t  _actually_  catch pneumonia from getting caught in the rain. And,” his voice softens, lowers, fight all gone, “did you not think I was  _exceptionally_ romantic for coming to your window anyway?”

Hermann’s irritation fades in the face of Newton’s flirtations, because Newton is right. Hermann is the one of royalty between the two, Newton a mere common scholar, but Hermann cannot help but think of Newton as his own private, eccentric, bedraggled prince charming, determined to save Hermann no matter what. Save him from loneliness, from the prison built for him by his father, from the life of expectations and lies and misery a marriage would damn him to. He kisses Newton again. “You were,” he acquiesces.

Newton grins again, and pulls off his glasses to clean them on the blanket. When he puts them back on, there’s a heat in his eyes. “I’m still cold,” he says, “ _but_  I think I have a solution that will benefit both of us.” He opens his arms, the blanket covering his arms like a cape, and Hermann takes the invitation and carefully settles himself onto Newton’s lap.

Hermann runs the fingers of one hand through Newton’s damp hair as Newton takes the other between his own two, raises it to his lips and kisses it. It’s so innocent, so chaste, but Hermann blushes as if it’s the most lewd action in the world. “Hermann,” Newton murmurs into the skin of his wrist, “run away with me.”

Newton says it each time they meet, from the first time he fell through Hermann’s window (Newton, a complete stranger who simply saw a tower without doors and just wanted to know what was at the top, who was as shocked to see Hermann as Hermann was to see him), to the first time he found his way back, to the first time they argued the night away and Newton had to hide under Hermann’s bed to avoid getting caught by Hermann’s father, to the first time Hermann gave into desire and longing and pulled Newton close and kissed him and Newton kissed back.  _Not tonight,_  Hermann always replies, but he finds he can’t bring himself to deny Newton and all he promises–a nondescript, anonymous, loving life of working alongside each other–this time. “Yes,” he sighs, still stroking Newton’s hair, “yes, of course.”

“When the rain stops,” Newton declares, and drags his lips up to kiss Hermann’s palm.


	29. roommate au + mutual pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hope you're still doing the mash up because i'd love 12 & 53
> 
> 12 Roommate AU (oh my god they were roommates) + 53 Mutual Pining; Rated T
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175763993633/hope-youre-still-doing-the-mash-up-because-id)

Hermann’s a pretty chill roommate, all things considered. He does his dishes. He doesn’t hog the shower. He’s quiet when he wakes up in the mornings for work and he’s quiet when he comes home. Sometimes he shouts at Newt, but that’s cool, because Newt shouts at him too. Sort of evens it out.

Hermann keeps to himself for a while after Newt answers his ad in the paper–an ad that read more like a dating profile, really, thirty-six year old male who values tidiness and privacy seeking similarly-minded roommate–so much that it takes Newt two months to get even the  _barest_  modicum of personal information out of him: that Hermann recently moved over from England, and that he’s teaching at the nearby university (that Newt  _also_  teaches at, seriously, how has he never seen this guy before? he’s like some weird cryptid). It takes another month to find out  _what_ Hermann teaches–physics. Science like Newt, which Newt is initially delighted about.

“Hey, that’s cool!” Newt exclaims. “I do biology. I mean, I’ve been on sabbatical, but–”

Hermann isn’t as delighted as Newt. “Biology?” he says, looking at Newt like Newt just confessed to being a serial killer who wears people’s skins or something. “Well. That does explain how  _messy_ you are.”

Newt would argue, but he does have a pretty impressive stack of mugs in the kitchen sink and a solid three of his old MIT sweatshirts lying in various lumps around the living room, so Hermann has a bit of a point. “Yeah, valid,” Newt says. Not to be left without the last word, he adds, “But physics, huh? That explains–” He waves his hand at Hermann, at his Turing haircut, his too-short slacks, his granny glasses. “–everything.” Hermann looks like the most cliche stuffy professor archetype ever come to life, like humanoid aliens came to Earth and tried to disguise themselves but did it  _very_  poorly. Hermann doesn’t say anything to that, just sort of lifts his head up haughtily and marches off to his bedroom.

There’s just one small hitch in what Newt would consider, in most ways, to be a pretty decent living situation: the fact that Newt wants  _very badly_ to get into Hermann’s tweed pants. 

He thought Hermann was kinda hot from the get-go, obviously, in a sort of weird, grumpy professor way–that may have been part of the reason why Newt was soeager to move in with him–but it doesn’t really become a problem until Newt  _gets to know him_. Hermann’s smart and he’s nerdy, but it’s in an endearing way, not in an annoying I-know-more-than-you-and-know-it way. He’s funny. He knits, sometimes, when he has nothing else to do with himself. He can match Newt in arguments like no one ever has before. He likes  _Star Trek_. He has a nice smile, when he lets Newt see it. He’s  _exactly_  the type of guy Newt would’ve liked to meet at a bar and then enthusiastically take home.

Unfortunately, that home happens to be Hermann’s home too in this situation.

The knowledge that he wants to bang Hermann hits Newt like a freight train the night after Hermann finishes up grading finals, when Newt talks him into letting Newt order a celebratory pizza and they put on some romantic comedy they find on Netflix. It’s a terrible movie and the pizza is cold by the time it gets there, but Hermann–the stress of the semester finally lifted–is open, almost cheerful, and instead of insisting Newt turn the movie off he joins him in mocking it, and he actually  _laughs_ at something Newt says and Newt thinks  _oh, goddamn it._

So Newt does what any self-respecting man would do. He pines. And then he seduces. Or, tries to.

He starts walking around their apartment shirtless. He starts deliberately bending over in front of Hermann to pick stuff up. He sits closer to him on the couch when they watch things. One time–not Newt’s proudest moment–he waits until he can hear Hermann outside the bathroom door to emerge from his shower, towel drooping  _low_ around his waist and a decent amount of water droplets (that Newt added from the sink) rolling down his chest. Hermann nearly runs into him, but stops so just their chests bump together. “Oh, I didn’t hear you over the shower,” Newt says. He bats his eyelashes. “Did I get you wet? Sorry.”

“The water’s been off twenty minutes,” Hermann says, and clacks off into his bedroom, leaving Newt to scream silently at his back.

Finally, he gives up, just decides to go the obvious route. See if he has a shot to begin with. “So,” Newt says as casually as he can manage a week later, as they sit watching  _Star Trek_ together, “are you, you know, seeing anyone?”

Hermann doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” Newt says. “You know, if you–”

Hermann pauses the episode. “Newton,” he says, “I’m not  _blind_.”

Newt’s mouth goes dry. “What, uh. What do you mean?”

“What I  _mean_ is that you could’ve asked me this three weeks ago instead of waltzing about in your underwear and–fellating  _bananas_.”

“That was one time!” Newt exclaims. “The banana thing was one time. And it was an accident. Wait, that’s not–you mean you’ve known the whole time that I–why didn’t you  _say_ something?!”

“I am not the type,” Hermann sniffs, “to be won by cheap seduction methods. I’d’ve liked to see  _some_ effort.” Pink rises to his cheeks. He clears his throat. “Though I admit the banana almost had me.”

“Okay,” Newt says, and licks his lips, a little nervously, because holy shit, it was mutual all along, “okay, then, sorry, you’re right, you deserve to be–wooed, or whatever, treated like a real gentleman. How should I do that?”

Hermann considers him. “Perhaps,” he says, and brushes back Newt’s hair, leans in, “a hands-on demonstration would be more efficient.”


	30. innocent physical contact + first kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tsudigogo asked:  
> I'm just adoring your responses to the Newmann tropes prompts! How about 85 (innocent physical contact) that somehow leads to 41 (first kiss)?
> 
> (this is one of my personal favs ones i've filled tbh)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175781881228/im-just-adoring-your-responses-to-the-newmann)

“We’re going to own this thing for  _sure_!” Hermann exclaims, and he’s beaming, corners of his eyes crinkling, grabbing at Newt’s hand like a lifeline, and Newt grins back so wide his face aches, laughs. Newt feels giddy. He feels like he’s floating. Hermann hasn’t smiled at him like that since–hell, Hermann’s  _never_ smiled at him like that, like Newt’s all he sees, all he cares about, like Newt’s the only one in the world. He doesn’t touch Newt all too much, either–Newt touches Hermann, when Hermann lets him, brief and fleeting things that make Newt’s chest burn with need–but this, their fingers interlocked, Hermann’s palm clammy and pressed to his own, it’s all Newt will ever want again.

He doesn’t know how long they stand like that, in the ruins of the bone slums, rubble all around them and Otachi’s baby in a heap while Hermann wrings his hand and they smile, and smile. (Otachi’s baby, brain death, they have to do it before brain death, they have to drift. Drift, with  _Hermann_!) “We have to–” Newt says, nodding at Otachi’s baby, but Hermann doesn’t let go of his hand, still looks at Newt with soft, soft eyes. “Uh–Hermann–”

“Hm?” Hermann says.

“The brain,” Newt says, “we have to–”

“Oh,” Hermann says, “yes, we do, don’t we–”

“We gotta–” Oh, fuck it. Newt’s already played his hand–his little  _for me_  slip-up–and Hermann’s as good as played his, so Newt’s got nothing to lose. He leans in and crushes his lips against Hermann’s, and Hermann drops Newt’s hand to grip at his tie and pull him closer, and they’re both smiling too wide for it to be anything more than just breathinginto each other’s mouths and their teeth clack together, but God, is it fantastic, is it  _wonderful._

Hermann’s the one to break it. He leans his forehead against Newt’s. “Brain,” he says.

“Brain,” Newt agrees, and can’t help but laugh again.


	31. fake dating + i didn't mean to turn you on (very mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 48 & 86 pls. fake boyfriends is probably my favourite trope of all time
> 
> 48 Fake Dating + 86 I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On; T/very mild M
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/175833188883/48-86-pls-fake-boyfriends-is-probably-my)

“Here’s the plan,” Newt says. “ _I_ need a date for this thing.  _You_ need a date for this thing.  _No one else_ likes either of us–”

“Speak for yourself,” Hermann interjects, stirring sugar into his tea. “I have a life outside of you, Newton.”

“Oh, okay, Mr. Popular,” Newt says. “Why are you here with me at the loser table instead of sitting with some of your  _much_ cooler friends, then?” It’s not really a loser table–this isn’t, like, some bad eighties high school flick–but it  _is_ the one table crammed in the corner of the mess hall away from the other ones where no one else wants to sit, so Newt and Hermann can bicker through meals all they want without driving anyone else away.

“Out of pity,” Hermann says. He takes a long sip and sets his chipped mug back down delicately. “Do continue. I’d like to say no as quickly as possible.”

“Asshole,” Newt says cheerfully. “Okay, so, like I was saying: we both need dates, no one likes either of us, why not be  _each other’s_ dates.”

“No,” Hermann says just as cheerfully.

“Man, come  _on_ ,” Newt whines. “We’re just going to sit at the bar all night together anyway like we always do at shit like this.”

_Shit like this_ , in this case, being some  _we’re poor and the government is refusing to continue to fund our research so please give us money_  gala Newt and Hermann are being forced to attend as the only remaining members of the Hong Kong K-Science Division. The only remaining members of  _any_ K-Science Division, in fact, which makes their attendance at the gala as PPDC rep all the more crucial. They don’t even necessarily  _need_ dates, really, but the invitation stipulates that couples get discounted entry (because yes, they have to pay to go to this thing, like it’s prom). Something about an incentive to get to know the significant others of PPDC personnel (and other significant guests). The minds behind the minds behind the people trying to save the world. Newt’s a big fan of taking advantage of systems like that. “All we have to do,” Newt continues, “is roll up, pretend we’re boyfriends, get that half-price entry, and then fuck off and do our own thing for the rest of the night.”

“You want us to pretend we’re boyfriends,” Hermann repeats slowly.

For some reason, when Hermann says it, it makes Newt’s heart do funny things in his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “Uh. For the discount.”

Hermann seems to be mulling it over. He taps his fingers on the side of his mug. “Alright,” he says, to Newt’s complete and utter shock. “Why not?” 

“Oh,” Newt says. “Cool!”

They sit in silence for the rest of dinner, not making eye contact.

* * *

“Stop fidgeting,” Hermann says out of the side of his mouth, as he and Newt wait at the entrance of the dance hall the gala is being held in. They’re arm-in-arm, both wearing pretty boring black suits–Hermann in a bow tie, Newt in a skinny tie patterned with lizards he found in a thrift shop ten years ago that Hermann has tried (unsuccessfully) to spill both wine and acid on multiple times. Once, memorably, at the same time.

“Sorry,” Newt hisses back. He tugs at his collar. “I fucking hate suits, man.”

Hermann elbows him. “You look handsome,” he murmurs, and before Newt can say the burning question on his mind (an empathetic  _what the fuck_ ) their tickets are being torn and they’re being welcomed inside.

The set-up is identical to every other fancy gala they’ve been to in the last four years: huge chandeliers, faux-marble floors, buffet tables lining the walls, waiters holding trays of food and skirting around a bunch of guys in suits, a bar, an orchestra. Not even any tables or chairs. “How long do we have to stay here again?” Newt says. He’s not looking forward to schmoozing. The plus side of having Hermann pose as his–Newt’s heart does the funny little swoop again–boyfriend means they have an excuse to stay arm-in-arm all night, which means that if Newt starts to say something dumbass or generally controversial Hermann can easily pinch him to stop him (a code they worked out beforehand–they don’t want a repeat of Anchorage, where Newt got champagne splashed in his face for calling a man a fascist).

“At least two hours. Ah!” Hermann suddenly plasters a wide, fake smile on his face and Newt turns to see who’s on the receiving end. It’s some high-ranking official that Newt knows is a) a total asshole ( _and_  total traitor to the jaeger program) b) someone Pentecost personally loathes, which means someone Newt and Hermann loathe too out of solidarity, and c) someone they desperately need to get money out of. ( _Be polite_ , Pentecost begged; Hermann certainly took it to heart. He’s laying it on  _thick_. It’s almost nauseating.) “Good evening, General. I’m Dr. Gottlieb and this is my partner and boyfriend, Dr. Geiszler. We work in the Hong Kong branch.”

Hermann strikes up a conversation with the guy, but Newt’s totally zoned out, misses all of it, because Hermann called him his  _boyfriend_ just like that. Not a second of hesitation. He vastly underestimated how much of an effect the mere concept of dating Hermann would have on him. Would Hermann introduce him like that all the time? Hold Newt’s hand in public?  _Kiss_ him in public? Imagine going on  _dates_  with Hermann…

“Detestable man,” Hermann says darkly under his breath once the general finally gets tired of schmoozing and moves on. The fake smile’s already gone. “He won’t be giving us a cent, I’m sure, with all his talk of that  _bloody_ coastal wall–”

“Yeah,” Newt agrees, perhaps too quickly, and Hermann frowns at him. Maybe Newt should’ve said something to the general instead of, just, staring off into space and daydreaming about Hermann being his boyfriend or whatever while Hermann did all the heavy-lifting.

But before Hermann can comment on it, his face contorts again–not into a fake smile, but into an even deeper frown. “ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, and Newt startles; it’s not often Hermann curses in front of him, and especially not when they’re surrounded by bougie bastards that hold the fate of their future research in their hands. There’s a sour-faced looking older guy in grey making his way over to them like his life depends on it, and Hermann clings tighter to Newt’s arm. “That’s an associate of my father’s,” he tells Newt. “Quick–”

Newt’s never met Lars Gottlieb, but he’s heard  _plenty_ about him from Hermann–complaints about anything from his shitty ideas about the future of the jaeger program to his even shittier parenting skills that make Newt’s fists ball up in rage whenever Hermann so much as mentions his childhood–and he’s seen him talking his mouth off about the wall on TV enough to know that any associate of Lars is probably just as much as an asshole as the man himself. Unfortunately, there’s not enough time for them to hide, like Hermann seemed to be insinuating they do, and the man descends upon them. “ _Hermann_ ,” he says, completely ignoring Newt, “what a  _surprise_. I didn’t expect you to be here. How’s your father?”

Already jumping right in, then. “I haven’t spoken to my father lately,” Hermann says through gritted teeth, and Newt wants–to  _comfort him_ , somehow. He squeezes Hermann’s arm reassuringly.

“Ah. So sorry,” the man says, not sounding sorry at all. “I forgot the two of you had a falling out. Still wasting your talents with the jaeger program, then?”

“Hermann’s not  _wasting his talents_ anywhere,” Newt snaps, unable to help himself, but Hermann looks so  _uncomfortable,_ and he doesn’t pinch Newt to stop him so Newt pushes on. “He’s a goddamn  _genius_ and he’s going to save the world while you’re busy fucking around with some stupid wall–”

“Who’s he?” the guy says to Hermann.

“My pa–my  _boyfriend_ ,” Hermann says, with such righteous fury that Newt–okay, maybe it kind of turns Newt on. It definitely turns him on. He wishes he was wearing looser pants. “Dr. Geiszler. If you’ll excuse us.” He turns on his heel and drags Newt along with him as he clacks off, leaving the guy looking stunned behind them.

“Hermann,” Newt says quietly once they’re no longer in earshot, his heart racing, his pulse thrumming wildly. “Uh–are you–”

“Yes,” Hermann says, sounding oddly strained. “Let’s–”

There’s a convenient broom closet just outside the hall, and Newt and Hermann find it fits both of them quite well. They don’t manage to score any money out of anyone, but all in all, Newt thinks it was a pretty successful night.


	32. stardust au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 99 and your choice. I just love fantasy....
> 
> so after i wrote this i realized 99 was magical accidents and not fantasy AU, BUT, go wild anyway gang.....this is one of my favs......enjoy a stardust AU (g)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176010756533/99-and-your-choice-i-just-love-fantasy)

Hermann isn’t quite sure what he expects to find when he tracks down the shooting star he spotted through his telescope. A moderately sized lump of rock in a moderately sized crater, perhaps, assuming the star hadn’t disintegrated in the atmosphere as it fell to Earth or broken apart immediately upon impact. Perhaps he expects to find nothing at all.

He  _doesn’t_  expect a rather short and disgruntled-looking man sprawled out in the middle of a very  _large_ crater scowling up at Hermann when Hermann peeks his head over the edge. “Oh,” Hermann says, nearly stumbling back in surprise. “Hello.”

“How the  _hell_  did I get here?” the man demands, voice shrill. As if Hermann’s somehow supposed to know and isn’t just as confused as he is.

The man’s got a mess of brown hair and skin that shimmers in the moonlight, and he’s dressed in something simple and flowing and white. He tenses up as Hermann lowers himself into the crater and takes a cautious step towards him. Is the man lost? Hurt? Should Hermann offer assistance? “I’m terribly sorry,” Hermann says, “but I don’t know. I was only looking for a star. Do you need help?”

“Looking for a star,” the man says, highly sarcastic, “ _very_ funny.” The man winces violently when he tries to sit up and his hand flies towards his ankle, which is twisted badly. “ _Shit.”_

This close, Hermann can see that the man’s arms and the bit of chest that peeks out from under his top are covered in silvery, swirling lines. They’re nothing like anything Hermann’s seen on a human being before–they seem to almost glitter. Hermann frowns: this  _is_ the spot where the star fell, he  _knows_ it, he trackedit down. Is it possible…? “Surely you don’t mean to imply that  _you’re_ a star,” Hermann says. The man ignores him, and Hermann presses on. “I study stars, you see.”

“Oh, you do?” the man says, still sarcastic.

“So I know for a fact you  _aren’t_ one,” Hermann continues. “You  _can’t_ be one.”

“Wanna bet?” the man says, and stands up. He falls back to the earth with a soft gasp of pain the second he puts weight on his injured ankle, and all of Hermann’s irritation with the odd little man is immediately replaced with concern.

“Stop,” Hermann orders, and carefully gets to his knees next to him, sets his cane on the ground, “you’re only going to make it worse.” The man doesn’t stop scowling, but he lets Hermann inch the fabric back up his leg and examine his ankle. Hermann’s no medical doctor–his expertise lies in the heavens–but he’s fairly certain the man will be fine so long as he doesn’t put any unnecessary strain on it. Not the man, Hermann corrects himself. The star. “You’re  _really_  a star?” Hermann says, looking up at the star’s face. He’s freckled too, Hermann realizes, little silvery flecks arranged across his face in a way that almost resembles the night sky. Could he chart constellations across them? (Hermann’s staring too much, he knows, but he can’t help himself–he’s never met a star before, and certainly not one as lovely-looking as this one.)

“Sure am,” the star says. “Hi. Nice to meet you. Wish it was under circumstances that didn’t involve me landing on my ass in the middle of–” he glances around. “A field? Whatever this is.”

Hermann smiles. He’s rapidly growing fond of the star, for some inexplicable reason. Beyond the realm of mere scientific fascination. “Do you have a name?” 

“I’m Newt,” the star says.

“Newt?” Hermann says, amused. It’s certainly an interesting name for a star. Newt starts to tense again, so Hermann–who hadn’t meant to offend–quickly adds, “I like it! I like it a great deal.” He smiles again, a bit wider, his fingers still resting gently on the soft skin of Newt’s ankle, and Newt returns the smile shyly. He’s almost  _glowing_ as he does. Like some odd, ethereal sort of blush. It suits him well, makes him look all the lovelier. “I’m Hermann.”

“Hermann,” Newt echoes, testing it out, and Hermann’s heart thuds rapidly. “Hermann.”


	33. i didn't mean to turn you on + kink (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nighthawkms asked:  
> 86 and 92!
> 
> 86 I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On + 92 Kink; Explicit/NSFW
> 
> (aka sexy sexy sock garters)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176038697098/86-and-92)

The chain of events leading to their current situation—Hermann, seated on the lab sofa, his slacks and blazer and cane lying in a pile on the floor, legs parted and Newton kneeling eagerly between them—are not long and complicated in the slightest. They’re fairly straightforward, actually, if unexpected, and all because of—

“Sock garters,” Newton says one afternoon in the lab, completely out of the blue.

Hermann sets his chalk down and turns to face him. “I beg your pardon?”

Newton’s eyes are fixed on the hem of Hermann’s slacks, where, moments before, the trouser leg had ridden up when Hermann stretched to reach his chalkboard. Newton’s fingers are clenched tight around a bit of kaiju entrails, the hand he holds his scalpel in frozen in mid-air. “You—” he clears his throat. “You wear sock garters. I didn’t know that.”

“Are you having a stroke?” Hermann says, because Newton is flushed in the face and perspiration is glistening on his forehead under the overhead light and, for some reason, he can’t seem to string together a coherent sentence regarding Hermann’s wardrobe choices. He’s never had a problem loudly vocalizing his opinions on the topic before. “Yes, I wear sock garters. Does it matter?”

Newton lowers the entrails and his scalpel to his dissection table, then slowly peels off his gloves and tosses them in the nearby biohazard bin. He wipes his palms on his corduroys far longer than is necessary for already-spotless palms. “No,” he says. “Maybe. A little.” His eyes wander to the leg of Hermann’s slacks again, where his sock—simple, plain, grey—peeks out, and he bites his lip, fidgets in place, and his pupils are wide.

_Oh?_ “Newton,” Hermann says, heart skipping a beat, because there’s no single, possible way, but, “are you—?”

“I’m sorry,” Newton blurts out, flushing deeper in shame, “that’s weird, isn’t it? Uh. I’ll just?” He pulls off his headlamp, darts his eyes towards the exit.

“No,” Hermann says, perhaps too quickly; he doesn’t want Newton to leave. Not when the situation is…far from disagreeable, as this one is. “No, it’s—”

“You just have nice ankles,” Newton says at the same time, “nice bone structure, and it’s like—hot, I don’t know—”

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann says, and Newton shuts his mouth. A rare occasion. “I am not mad,” he says slowly. “Far from it.”

“Oh,” Newton says. “ _Oh_.”

 

Newton strips Hermann out of his slacks almost immediately after pushing him down to the sofa, and he kneels down and strokes up his calves immediately after  _that._ Hermann nearly shouts in surprise when Newton leans in and starts mouthing at the front of his briefs. “It’s like some weird Pavlovian response, dude,” Newton explains between long, sucking kisses, running his hand along one of the sock garters as he goes, “like it’s the—fucking—1800s and you’re flashing me an ankle. You’re always so,” he tongues at the head of Hermann’s cock through the barrier, soaking the fabric with saliva, and Hermann digs his nails into the sofa cushions, “ _uptight_ , I just wanna mess you up, you know?”

It’s a bit of an odd admission, but  _Newton’s_ odd, so Hermann will take it as the compliment it’s (presumably) meant to be. Evidently satisfied of the mess he’s made thus far, Newton finally pulls Hermann’s cock out and mouths up the shaft, but after a few seconds he parts with a little kiss to the head. Hermann’s a little ashamed of the pitch of the whine that escapes him then. “Newton, don’t—”

But Newton starts kissing and stroking his way down Hermann’s thigh, his calf, until he reaches his left sock garter and—Hermann has to cover his mouth to keep himself from moaning too loudly and attracting unwanted attention to the current going-ons of the k-science lab—undoes it with his  _teeth._ He grazes Hermann’s skin with his teeth, kisses the spot, then quickly moves to the right side and undoes that garter too. “Hermann,” Newton’s mumbling, over and over, into his skin, breath coming in harsh pants as he kisses his way back up Hermann’s leg, “shit—”

He kisses the head of his cock again, swipes his tongue across, but Hermann tangles his fingers in Newton’s hair. “ _Newton_ ,” Hermann breathes, and Newton looks up with dark eyes and slick lips, mouth parted and tongue half-out, and Hermann moans again and tugs him up until Newton’s straddling his lap and starts kissing him. “There are certain elements of the way you present yourself,” Hermann gasps as Newton sucks on his neck, “that appeal to me too.” He reaches his fingers up between their chests to yank open Newt’s tie and the buttons of his shirt, nevermind that it’s an understatement: there are, truthfully,  _many_ elements of Newton’s appearance that appeal to him, but one in particular that his thoughts wander to when he—occasionally—brings himself off to the thought of Newton.

“Mm?” Newton says, biting down hard enough to make Hermann jerk his head back. He licks over his teethmarks.

Hermann presses his palm to the bare skin of Newton’s chest. “Your tattoos,” he pants, “I’ve always wanted to know how  _far_  they go.”

Newton pulls off and sits up, making sure to roll his hips, saliva trailing from his lips. “Let’s find out, then,” he says, grinning and shrugging his shirt off.


	34. sick fic + sleep intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 27 + 95 for Newmann please
> 
> 27 Sick Fic + 95 Sleep Intimacy (g)
> 
> last time hermann got the “getting cuddled while sick” treatment so it’s only fair that newt gets it this time
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176062422628/27-95-for-newmann-please)

“Hermann,” Newt declares, “when I die, promise me you won’t remarry for at least ten years.”

He can only see the top of Hermann’s head from inside his blanket nest, but it’s enough to know that Hermann’s rolling his eyes. “Stop being dramatic,” Hermann says, tucking another blanket on top of Newt. He’s sitting down on the edge of the bed for easy access to Newt, which Newt is grateful for. “You’re not going to die.”

“I can already feel my organs shutting down.” Newt sniffs pitifully. “It won’t be long now.”

Hermann presses his hand to Newt’s forehead. “You’re not even  _remotely_  hot.” Newt pouts, and Hermann rolls his eyes again, leans down and presses his lips to Newt’s forehead instead. “Still no, Newton. It’s merely a cold.” But his voice is a little softer, all irritation gone, and he brushes back Newt’s hair before kissing his forehead again.

“Well I feel like  _shit_ ,” Newt says, and he really does mean it, one-hundred-percent, it feels like his head’s going to split open and no amount of Advil or kisses are helping.

Hermann smooths his hair back again. “I know, dear,” he says. “Have you canceled your classes yet?”

Newt did. He sent out a mass email to all his undergrads the second he woke up and realized he was dying. “Mm-hmm.”

“I’ll cancel mine too, then,” Hermann says. He’s already taking off his blazer and setting it down carefully at the foot of the bed and unlacing his shoes. Should Newt try to argue him out of it? Maybe. But Hermann always does a  _great_  job of taking care of him when he’s sick and it would make the whole day a lot less awful if he wasn’t alone. “Would you like anything?” Hermann says, voice soothing. “Tea? More Advil?”

“Cuddle with me,” Newt pleads. Hermann hesitates; climbing in bed with a sick person, regardless of how long you’ve been married to them, sounds like a questionable idea at best, and Newt will admit that, but he really,  _really_  wants Hermann to hold him right now, damn it. Like Newt’s reverting back to some sort of juvenile state. 

“Oh, fine,” Hermann sighs. The covers lift and the bed dips as Hermann settles in next to Newt, and Newt immediately clings to him and rests his head against his chest, shutting his eyes. Hermann’s not very warm, and he’s a little bony, but damn if Newt doesn’t love cuddling with him anyway. At least his sweater’s soft. “Newton,” Hermann says, trying to pull an arm out of Newt’s clutch, “I can’t reach my phone.”

“Mm. Tragic,” Newt says. His nose is stuffed up, but he can still very, very faintly smell the detergent on Hermann’s sweater from laundry day yesterday. He nuzzles at the wool.

“Newton,” Hermann repeats, stern, “if you don’t let me send this email I am going in to work after all and you can wallow in misery by  _yourself_.” Newt lets go quickly. He feels Hermann moving around as he pulls his phone from his pocket, hears the quiet little tapping on his screen as he types, but Newt dozes off before Hermann finishes and sends the email.

He wakes a short while later, his face pressed to Hermann’s chest with Hermann’s arms tight around him and feels moderately better. He can just see their alarm clock over Hermann’s shoulder–early afternoon. Hermann’s still sleeping, chest rising and falling steadily, and his hair is mussed from his pillow and it looks  _very_ cute. Newt plants a little kiss to his shirt, smiles, and drifts back to sleep.


	35. vacation fic + married to the job (very mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 34 & 84 for the newmann prompts pls!
> 
> 34 Vacation Fic + 84 Married To The Job; (probably t or m)
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176071651053/34-84-for-the-newmann-prompts-pls)

Newt’s been itching to take Hermann away somewhere for ages,  _years_ , even back before the Breach closed and their futures laid in a permanent state of possibly not actually existing (and Newt wasn’t even sure they’d have one together yet). Just the two of them running away together for a week or two, throwing aside all obligations and relaxing on a beach somewhere (on the Atlantic), or in a mountain cabin, or in some idyllic little cottage, where they could make out in private and not think about work and maybe argue  _slightly_  less. He gets his wish: Hermann is more than enthusiastic about running away somewhere with Newt once they’re certain their futures are in a decidedly  _permanent_  state of existing (and together, at that), so Newt books them a rental home on the east coast and whisks him off the second they finish up their last bit of paperwork. (Turns out drifting with a kaiju brain incurs a shit-ton of paperwork.)

Newt’s excited: nothing but Hermann, kaiju-free beaches, and absolutely no work for a solid week.

He thinks.

“You know, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Newt calls through the sliding glass door that leads to the beach house deck, open so as to allow in a nice ocean breeze. It also allows him a clearer view of Hermann, who sits just beyond it typing away at his laptop, because–exactly two days into their vacation of doing nothing (nothing but, Newt hoped, each other)–Hermann got  _antsy_  of doing nothing and  _insisted_  he start typing up a few draft chapters of the book of their k-science research they’ve talked of joint-publishing.

“I’ll only be a moment longer,” Hermann says over his shoulder.

Newt huffs. He’s in nothing but a white bathrobe and Hermann’s boxers, sprawled out over the bed, all part of his plan of seduction that’s–so far–yielded absolutely  _zero_  results except for a brief little fling on the couch the first night here. Hermann’s so focused on the stupid book draft and all Newt wants is hot after-dark beach sex, damn it. “You said that yesterday,” Newt calls back. “Come  _on_. I’m  _bored_.”

Hermann sighs loud enough for Newt to hear him and stops typing for a moment. “You’re welcome to go to the beach by yourself, Newton.” The typing picks back up.

Part of the plan, which is what necessitated the beach in the first place, involved Newt parading around Hermann in a tiny bathing suit and getting him hot-and-bothered. So not only is it no fun to go alone, but it completely defeats the purpose. Who is he supposed to show off for? There are some hot surfers also here this week. Not Newt’s usual type–he likes bad-tempered skinny nerds too much–but he’s not opposed to leveraging them to make Hermann jealous; one of them tried to hit on Newt yesterday and Hermann had been noticeably  _miffed_ , after all. “Fine,” Newt says, and hops off the bed. “I’ll go find those surfer guys.”

“Surfer guys?” Hermann echoes sharply, typing abruptly ceasing once more.

“The really buff ones,” Newt clarifies. “Like the one who tried to give me his number. I’m sure he’ll be  _happy_  to hang out with me.”

Hermann walks back inside and sets his laptop down on the desk, then shuts the sliding door. Newt sits down on the edge of the bed and watches innocently. “That,” Hermann says, coming to a stop between Newt’s legs, “will not be necessary.”

“Are you sure?” Newt says, and falls back against the sheets with a little  _thump_. “You seem pretty busy.” He slips out of his bathrobe. Hermann’s eyes linger over his chest, then over the stolen boxers.

“Take those off,” he says, after a moment’s pause.

“Okay, yes,  _sweet_ ,” Newt says–now they’re getting somewhere!–and wriggles out of the boxers as Hermann begins digging around in the dresser drawers that Newt’s claimed. Newt thought he was being slick when he packed lube, but apparently Hermann saw. “I was only kidding about the surfers,” Newt says, kicking both boxers and bathrobe to the floor. “I just wanted–” Hermann cuts him off by tossing a pair of Newt’s swim trunks directly at his face, nearly knocking off his glasses. Newt holds up the trunks and blinks. “What?”

Hermann looks vaguely amused, unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand; the bastard doesn’t even seem to  _care_  that Newt’s completely nude on the bed. “I thought you wanted to go to the beach?” he says.

Newt huffs. “Well, yeah, but…”

Hermann widens his eyes in mock-confusion. (The bastard.) “You mean to tell me you lured me away from my work under false pretenses, Newton?”

“ _God_ , fine, I get it, you’re the worst,” Newt says, and slips his swim trunks on all while glaring at Hermann. Hermann finishes unbuttoning his shirt and grins too mischievously for Newt’s liking.

(Hermann  _does_  let them fool around a bit on the beach once the sun sets, though, so win-win.)


	36. unexpected virgin + first time (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 90 at some point?
> 
> 90 Unexpected Virgin and i paired it with 89 First Time; Explicit/NSFW
> 
> (because i saw mamma mia 2 the night before i wrote this and ive had andante andante stuck in my head since and it put me in the mood to just write some soft lovin post-movie first time smut )
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176129064088/90-at-some-point)

It’s a night of firsts all around: Hermann has never drifted with a kaiju brain before. Hermann has never kissed Newton Geiszler before. Hermann has never made love before. (Hermann has never made love with  _Newton Geiszler_  before.)  
  
Newton is laid out on Hermann’s bed, nude, a blush staining his cheeks and spreading down his neck that’s visible even in the dimmed lights. He’s taken his glasses off. He looks vulnerable without them: more wide-eyed, not innocent, not in the slightest, but Hermann can better see the hazel of his irises (one reddened), the way the way his pupils widen as Hermann reaches out to  _touch_ him. He skims his fingertips down Newton’s cheek and presses his index finger to the crest of Newton’s soft lips, and Newton kisses the pad of it. Hermann rests the palm of his other hand over Newton’s heart and feels it speed up, and Newton takes the tip of Hermann’s finger into his mouth and drags his tongue across it. Hermann lets out a shaky breath.

He should say something. Do something beyond just touch and kiss Newton. Newton is looking at him expectantly, after all, gaze heated as he sucks up to the second knuckle of Hermann’s finger, but Hermann is so damned  _nervous_. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take the reins here,” he finally admits. “I don’t have much—” he falters. Why bother pretending? He’s shared all of himself with Newton tonight, and he’s about to share this much more—what’s one little confession? “Well. I don’t have  _any_  experience.”

Newton stops his gentle administrations, eyes widening in surprise, and Hermann slips his finger from Newton’s mouth. Newton lets out a relieved laugh. “Oh, thank fuck,” he says. “I have no clue what I’m doing, either.”

“You haven’t—?” Hermann’s dumbfounded. There’s no way Newton—

“I haven’t,” Newton affirms. He rests his hand over Hermann’s and smiles lazily. “I can’t believe you haven’t either.” He laughs again, and Hermann joins him this time. It’s as though an immense weight has been lifted from his chest: he doesn’t have to worry about being perfect or  _disappointing_  Newton, now. Newton leans in and presses his forehead to Hermann’s and slides his hand to rest at the dip of Hermann’s back. This close, Hermann can count the freckles on his cheeks.

“You can’t?” Hermann murmurs.

Newton brushes their lips together. “No,” he says, a gentle vibration, and then he grins. “You’re  _hot_ , Hermann. I thought  _someone_  would’ve sexed you up by now. I mean, obviously I’m glad I get to be the one to do the honors, but…”

“I could say the same for you,” Hermann says. He spreads the fingers of his palm and thumbs at Newton’s nipple; Newton’s mouth falls open, and he drops the hand that’d been atop Hermann’s. “You’re stunning. Lovely.”

“Hermann,” Newton sighs, and shifts, and Hermann can feel Newton stiffening against his hip.

They’re still laying on their sides, and the angle has become a bit awkward and strenuous on Hermann’s leg. Newton catches on without Hermann even having to say anything. He nudges Hermann onto his back, straddles him, rolls his hips down in one slow, languid movement. “Touch me,” he pleads, snagging Hermann’s hands by the wrists and pressing them to his chest. “ _Please_.”

Hermann rolls Newton’s nipples under his thumbs, traces the inked lines of waves and kaiju, finally settles on the little pudge at Newton’s waist and massages at it. Newton’s head is framed by the warm overhead lighting, gold shining through his hair almost as if he has a little halo. “Newton,” he breathes, over and over, as Newton rolls his hips down again, eyelashes fluttering, and strokes his hands down Hermann’s chest, and it’s nothing like anything Hermann’s ever felt before, “Newton, darling—”

Newton leans over and kisses him hard, and he moans into Hermann’s mouth when Hermann slips a hand between their bodies and wraps it around their erections. Feeling Newton against him, in his grasp, warm and soft and moving, is nearly overwhelming. Hermann’s dizzy. To have wanted Newton for so long and to have him now… “I love you,” Newton pants, sudden and unprompted, and Hermann’s hand shakes around them and something akin to joy bubbles in his chest. “I love you so much, Hermann, you have no clue. Is that too soon? I’m sorry—I just—”

“I love you, too,” Hermann murmurs, stroking them, and Newton makes a helpless, broken little noise and rolls himself in to Hermann’s grip. “You wonderful, foolish—”

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newton says, “ _yes_ —”

Neither of them last long; this is the first time Hermann’s touched and been touched by anyone like this, after all, and the first time they’ve touched and been touched in return, and it’s  _Newton_  at that. Newton only needs a few more strokes before he’s gasping out Hermann’s name in little sobs and coming in spurts on their chests, and Hermann kisses him through his own orgasm a moment later.

“Next time,” Newton mumbles as Hermann holds him close, “let’s see if we can make it more than five minutes.”

“Next time,” Hermann hums, happy, and kisses the top of his head.


	37. hoodie thief hermann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not TECHNICALLY a prompt fill but a result of a conversation on twitter, which......counts
> 
> married boys stealing each other's clothing

One of Newt’s shirts is missing from his dresser. **  
**

It’s not one of his favorites, or anything–it’s old, and the logo on the front is so faded he can’t tell what it was meant to be anymore, and he usually just wears it to bed or when he’s cleaning up around the apartment like now–but it’s usually sitting right on top in his shirt drawer, so the lack of it now is conspicuous. It’s not in the hamper, either, or shoved under the bed (which is what sometimes happens to clothing Newt is too lazy to put in the hamper), and it’s not behind the bathroom door (which is what happens to clothing Newt is too lazy to pick up after he showers) or in the laundry room. The likeliest solution is that Hermann finally got tired of it and threw it out, like he’s always threatening to do with all of Newt’s older, and more worn, clothing. Which is a shame. It was soft as hell.

“Hey,” Newt says, poking his head into the living room. Hermann, reading glasses perched on his nose, looks up from the report he’d been grading and arches an eyebrow. “Have you seen my one shirt? It’s blue, and there’s a little hole in it–”

Newt stops. The shirt isn’t missing. Hermann didn’t throw it out. Hermann’s  _wearing_  it, tucked it into his pajama bottoms and hid it under a layer of cardigan. But Hermann shakes his head. Newt narrows his eyes. “No, I haven’t seen it,” Hermann says, completely innocently. “Have you checked the hamper?”

At a loss for anything else to do, Newt says “Good idea,” and wanders back to their bedroom.

The next thing that goes missing is one of his old wool sweaters that he hasn’t worn in years. This one can’t possibly be Hermann’s doing–it’d be way to short in the torso and sleeves–but sure enough, Newt finds him wearing it at the kitchen table, mug in hand and silently daring Newt to say something. So Newt does say something. “Nice sweater.” He nods at it.

The corner of Hermann’s mouth twitches up, and he takes a long sip of coffee. The sleeves are too short, settled high on his forearms, and when he moves they just ride up more and expose his delicate, bony wrists that Newt likes so much. “Thank you,” he says.

The next day, Newt steals a pair of Hermann’s old striped pajama bottoms and slips them on before he snuggles up next to him on the couch for their Saturday tradition of doing absolutely nothing. They’re too long on him, so he has to roll the cuffs a good two times to keep them from dragging on the floor. Hermann says nothing, but he is a little more handsy than usual when they kiss. Hermann wears the blue shirt to bed that night and the next morning, and Newt spends the day wrapped in one of Hermann’s cardigans; Monday, Newt wears one of Hermann’s button-ups to work at the university; Tuesday, Hermann spends the evening lounging around the apartment in another of Newt’s t-shirts; Wednesday, Newt wears nothing to bed but a pair of Hermann’s boxers; Thursday, Hermann wears one of Newt’s zip-up hoodies while they make out on the sofa, Hermann laying against the cushions with Newt nestled on top.

“It’s a good look for you,” Newt says, zipping down the sweatshirt just enough to kiss and nose at Hermann’s neck. Hermann runs his hands up Newt’s back and under the hem of his sweater Newt stole and hums happily. And it is a good look, really: Newt  _likes_  seeing Hermann wearing his stuff, like it appeases some sort of deep, primal, possessive streak in him. Property of Newt Geiszler, back off. It’s a two-way thing, too; wearing Hermann’s stuff puts out a strong  _property of Hermann Gottlieb_ vibe too, and Newt digs it.

Hermann rubs his hands over Newt’s shoulderblades and smiles into another kiss. “They smell like you,” he explains. “And they’re soft, like you.” He runs his fingers down over Newt’s sides, squeezes at his love handles and makes Newt squirm.

“Kind of weird,” Newt says, “but I’ll take it.”


	38. pwp (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> maria queen of newmann smut i would love a PWP fic if you're willing
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176310693093/maria-queen-of-newmann-smut-i-would-love-a-pwp-fic)

“You forgot to carry a one,” Newt says, voice muffled.

“No,” Hermann says, “I did not.”

Newt wriggles around enough to turn his head to the side and glare back at Hermann. “Yes,” he says, “you  _did_ , look–” But Hermann’s fingers are tight around his wrist, pinning him to the chalkboard, and he can’t point the way he wants to, and Hermann doesn’t seem like he’s going to let Newt go anytime soon either. “Just to my left,” Newt says, and then moans loudly, “oh,  _fuck_ , do that again–”

“To your  _left_?” Hermann says, sounding a little bewildered, and he starts to angle himself but Newt shakes his head frantically.

“No, no, where you are is– _oh_ –it’s perfect.”

“Ah,” Hermann pants.

“I meant–” Hermann rolls into Newt once more, slowly, letting him feel the stretch of every inch, and Newt forgets all about the incorrect sum. And then he remembers. “No, look, look, I’m serious.”

“Newton,” Hermann says, and he picks up speed and tries his very best to fuck Newt into the chalkboard without losing his grip on the ledge and tipping over, which Newt appreciates, really, but that sum is bothering him, and it’s  _all_  he can see, “I have never forgotten to carry a one in my entire life. I have–”

“Please don’t try to quote your thesis at me again,” Newt says, knowing exactly where Hermann’s about to go, “it’s not sexy, at all,” (it is a  _little_  sexy) and then he yelps when Hermann slams in particularly hard and hits the perfect spot. “ _Shit_!”

Hermann’s lips go to the joint of Newt’s shoulder and neck, and he kisses at Newt’s pulse point. “There, Newton?”

“Yes! Right there–” Hermann does it again, and Newt’s knees feel like jelly and his fingers curl against the board, “ _Hermann_ –”

“You’ll find,” Hermann murmurs, “that I am  _very_  thorough.” He grinds down. “I don’t make shoddy errors.”

“Uh-huh,” Newt moans, hand flying over his dick as he jerks himself off.

“I am  _very_  precise,” Hermann continues, still in that low voice, like Newt’s a math problem he’s determined to take apart and solve (which makes Newt feel kinda weirdly-sexy and jerk himself a little faster). “You, Newton, you’re  _sloppy_ , you’re–” his hips start to stutter and he loses the nice rhythm he built up, and his knuckles are white on the ledge.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Newt moans.

“– _messy_ , you–oh,  _Newton_ –” he thrusts in once more, and Newt feels him come, which is all he needs to whimper his way through his own release a few seconds later.

Hermann parts with a little kiss to the back of Newt’s neck once his breathing calms down, then lets go of Newt’s wrist to grab his cane from where he hooked it at the side of his chalkboard. “Ah,” he says, righting his slacks and sweater with his free hand, “thank you.” Hermann is always adorably awkward after they fuck, especially when it’s in the lab,  _especially_  when he he indulges in anything remotely similar to dirty talk, and Newt kind of loves it.

Newt’s so sweaty he has to practically peel himself from the chalkboard; luckily, Hermann pushed him up against a spot without any writing on it, so he’s only  _mildly_  covered in chalk dust. No more than Hermann usually is. He wipes his hand off on his boxers and yanks both them and his jeans up, fumbles with the button fly as he turns to shoot Hermann a flirty little grin (maybe offer his own congratulations on another job well done of screwing Newt), but Hermann’s eyes are fixed to the left of the board. 

“Oh, hell,” Hermann says. “I  _did_  forget to carry a one.”


	39. bored-n-ignored newt (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> What about a PWP with bored-n-ignored Newt with fully clothed "not"-participating Hermann?
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176413350308/what-about-a-pwp-with-bored-n-ignored-newt-with)

Stay still, Hermann told Newton. Stay still, be patient, and he’ll take care of Newton once he finishes up this last report. Newton just has to be patient. Which is an impossible wish, of course; Newton has never been patient in his life, and especially not when he’s–for lack of euphemism–very aroused. More so today than usual, which Hermann would find odd if he wasn’t used to Newton getting into little moods like this occasionally. Sometimes Newton wants nothing more than for Hermann to hold him in bed and kiss him, chaste and sweet. Sometimes Newton wants nothing more than to be screwed into a mattress until he’s shouting his head off. Usually Hermann’s happy to comply with either mood, but today, he really  _does_ have to finish this report.

“Hermann,” Newton sighs, pacing the room ( _Hermann’s_ room, he regrets giving Newton a spare key sometimes), hands shoved deep in his pockets. “So. Uh. Are you almost–”

“ _No_ , Newton,” Hermann sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “For God’s sake.”

“But–”

“You’re more than welcome to take care of  _yourself_ ,” Hermann offers. Can’t the man just masturbate like the rest of the human race when he gets like this? He hears Newton huff, hears him pace around a few more times.

“Fine!” Newton says, surprising Hermann. “Fine.”

There’s the sound of Hermann’s bedside drawer opening (Newton retrieving their lube); the rustle of Newton’s clothing as he strips from his belt, shirt, tie, pants, drops it all to the floor; the creaking of Hermann’s mattress bedsprings as Newton flings himself onto it. The uncapping of the lube.

Hermann realizes he’s waiting with bated breath as for what Newton will do next. Newton starts slow, usually, when he masturbates (at least when he puts on a show for Hermann, which Hermann typically appreciates), pinches his nipples, strokes his abdomen, teases himself with a finger or two at his hole as he ruts against the bedsheets. This time–Newton does not tease himself.

Newton groans, loud and continuous (the sound he always makes when he stretches himself open), and then–there’s the slick sounds of Newton moving his fingers in and out of himself, his gasps, his moans (“Hermann” and “ _please_ “), and it’s  _maddening_ , (will Newton use a toy on himself?, Hermann wonders) and the lines of Hermann’s report blur together and his cock hardens in his trousers. “Hermann,” Newton begs, and the mattress creaks, “please, Hermann, Hermann, oh–”

Hermann’s grasp is sweaty around his pen. There is nothing he’d like to do more than press Newton’s face into the pillows and fuck him raw, til he’s writhing and begging and crying for it, but Hermann can’t lose the upper hand. He can’t give in that easily.

There’s a series of sharp little cries from the bed, each one louder than the last. “Ah–ah–!” (Hermann imagines Newton’s fingers, buried deep in himself, touching and stroking his inner walls, his prostate, and Hermann’s heart races. How much longer can Hermann hold out? How much longer can he feign disinterest?)

Hermann waits until the zipper of his trousers is digging painfully into his cock before he finally sets down his pen. “Newton.”

“Yeah?” Newton moans.

Hermann does not turn around. “Quiet down, will you?”

Newton lets out a long, frustrated whimper, then starts babbling. “Come on, Hermann, please, I need it–“

(Almost, Hermann thinks.) “What do you need?” he says, affecting the most bored voice he can.

“You  _know_ ,” Newton says. “You know–”

Hermann sighs, long and put-upon (for show), then sits back, lowers the zipper of his trousers just enough to slip his cock out. “If I give you what you’d like,” he says, “will you stop being a nuisance?”

He hears Newton spring to his feet, feels his drape himself across Hermann’s back. “Yes,” he says, and kisses at Hermann’s neck, “yes, yes–” He’s slicked his hand up beforehand and he reaches down now, grabs clumsily at Hermann’s cock and slicks that up too.

“Very well,” Hermann says, stifling a moan. “As you will, Newton.”

Newton is so eager, so desperate, and he braces himself back on Hermann’s desk as he straddles his lap, mindful of Hermann’s leg, and sinks down onto Hermann. It’s a lovely sight, truthfully: Newton’s eyelashes fluttering behind his glasses, the straining of his muscles beneath his tattooed skin (bare, as opposed to Hermann), his teeth digging into his bottom lip, his cock flushed and hard and trapped between them. “Oh–” Newton’s moaning, deep and low, and his eyes are closed, and it’s taking every ounce of self-restraint Hermann has to not thrust up into the wonderful, wonderful tight heat of him. Hermann counts to ten, grips at the armrests of his chair so hard his nails dig into the rubber.

Newton grinds down when he bottoms out, waiting impatiently for Hermann to move, but Hermann sits, does nothing. “Come on,” Newton begs, “come on, please–”

“Newton,” Hermann says mildly, though sweat beads at his brow, “this is  _entirely_  for your benefit. I am gaining nothing from this. If you’d like something–” Newton squeezes around him, and Hermann’s facade nearly cracks, “–if you’d like something, you must  _work_  for it.”

Newton whimpers and grinds down again, the blunt head of Hermann’s cock rubbing him deep, but Hermann stays stoic. “You’re the worst,” Newton gasps, and he braces himself on the desk once more to start lifting himself up and back down. A nice rhythm. “Hermann,” he gasps. “Oh, shit–”

Hermann is clutching the armrests so hard his fingers are going numb. If Newton was a lovely sight before, now he’s radiant–working himself up and down on Hermann’s cock furiously, so  _needy_. He wants to badly to  _touch_ , to grab at Newton’s soft skin and hold his thighs apart and give Newton want he wants, but then the experiment would be a failure and he can’t help but feel they’d  _both_ be left disappointed. So he restrains himself. “Your glasses are so sexy,” Newton moans, and it’s only just then Hermann realizes he left them on, too, “oh–” Newton lets go of the desk and clings to Hermann instead, one hand clutching his blazer, the other at the back of his neck, and works his hips faster. “ _Hermann_ –!”

Newton clenches around Hermann on his next upstroke, so  _tight_ , and Hermann is grateful Newton’s thrown his head back so he can’t see the way Hermann’s mouth drops open almost involuntarily. “Touch me,” Newton whines, as he squeezes, as the head of his cock rubs at the wool of Hermann’s sweater and smears precome, as he leaves sloppy kisses up Hermann’s neck, “Hermann–”

“I’m gaining  _nothing_  from this,” Hermann reminds him, not moving an inch, and Newton scratches at his blazer and  _squeezes_ him and whines again, higher, and then finally gives up and starts tugging at his cock. He comes after only two strokes with the same sharp cries as before, staining Hermann’s sweater, and Hermann finally betrays himself with the smallest sigh of pleasure as he follows.

“That was so hot,” Newton says after a few moments, bizarrely cheerful. “You’re the best, Hermann.”

“I really do have to finish that report, dear,” Hermann pants, and realizes it–along with the pen–have been knocked to the floor in Newton’s haste. Newton moves enough for Hermann to slip out of him, but he doesn’t stop clinging to him and presses his face to Hermann’s neck again. (Newton is always clingy and affectionate after orgasm.)

“Nah,” Newton says, and nuzzles at him, “this is much better. Cuddling’s much better.”

“Oh, fine,” Hermann says. “But on the  _bed_. This is hardly comfortable.” He– _very_ begrudgingly–kisses the side of Newton’s head.


	40. small gestures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ee-void asked:  
> fic prompts you say... how about... small gestures (like making each other coffee/tea/food, remembering tiny details about specific stuff and then using that knowledge) combined with first days in the shared k-lab OR one of those precious nerds has The Affectionate Day and he craves physical closeness (snuggling? hugging? sitting on ones' laps? three times yes) - bonus points if it's pre-dating/pining period
> 
> [here](http://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/176447043773/fic-prompts-you-say-how-about-small-gestures)

“Do you want tea?” Newt says.

Hermann startles; it’s a rare quiet day in the lab, and they’d both been working in silence. In peace, even. Maybe one of their first ones since they got stuck here together a month ago. Hermann sets his chalk down and turns to blink at Newt. “Tea?” he says.

“Tea,” Newt confirms. He’s holding out two mugs towards Hermann: Hermann’s (plain, boring) one, Newt’s (fun, exciting) one. Hermann eyes his mug cautiously, flexing his fingers around the head of his cane.

“Yes,” he says. “But I don’t know if–”

“It’s the way you like it,” Newt says. He smiles a little. He remembers how Hermann takes it, of course (a little bit of milk, and no sugar), just one of the inane little details they shared back when they wrote to each other. Hermann doesn’t take the mug, and anxiety twists in Newt’s stomach. Was this a dumb idea? Newt only meant it as a peace offering (a  _sorry for being a pain in the ass that you can’t stand but you’re now stuck in a lab indefinitely with_ ) but now Hermann probably thinks he’s weird for remembering something like that. “Sorry,” Newt says, and starts to retreat back to his side of the lab, “uh–”

But Hermann reaches out and snags his wrist to stop him. “Thank you,” he says, with a nod, “that was–kind of you, Newton.”

Newt hopes Hermann can’t feel the way Newt’s pulse races under his thumb at the touch, but Hermann drops his hand, his cheeks coloring, so Newt knows he did. He takes the mug. “Thank you,” he repeats, and Newt nods and flees back to his dissection table.

The next morning, Newt’s typing up an email when he hears the tell-tale sound of Hermann’s cane clacking up behind him. (What’s Hermann going to yell at him for  _now_? Did he forget to put away a sample last night or something? Spill something on the floor?) But Hermann doesn’t yell at him; he just sets Newt’s–full–mug down next to his elbow. It’s Newt’s turn to blink in surprise. “What?” he says.

“Coffee,” Hermann says stiffly. “Ah. The way you–like it.”

“Oh,” Newt says. (Hermann remembered, too.) Hermann nods and clacks back to his chalkboard before Newt can say anything else. Newt’s grateful, because it means Hermann can’t see the sappy little smile spreading across his face.


	41. fake exes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> prompt: fake exes. the inverse of fake marriage. for some reason they have to pretend to be ex-boyfriends. and, obviously, doing so makes them realize how much they want to be real not-ex-boyfriends

Newt figures the best way to go about breaking the news is to be as cryptic as possible. It cuts back on the amount of time Hermann can be mad at him about the whole thing. This, then, of course, snowballs into deciding to tell Hermann last minute, which snowballs into telling Hermann on the taxi drive to MIT. Best to have the conversation in front of a witness in case Hermann murders him or something. “Okay,” Newt says, feeling a bit weird in his suit. “So here’s the deal.”

“Oh no,” Hermann sighs. “What have you done  _now_?”

“Well,” Newt says. “It’s not exactly what I’ve  _done_  and more what I  _haven’t_  done. Please don’t be pissed. I promise it’s not too bad.”

“You’re not inspiring much confidence.” Hermann is already looking at him warily.

How to explain? Back before he got sent off to Hong Kong, back when Newt was still teaching, back when he and Hermann still wrote to each other–well, Newt wasn’t exactly  _subtle_  about holding a deep admiration for his new genius penpal. And he was young, barely out of his early twenties (a great deal younger than his colleagues), (and  _infatuated_ , so infatuated with Hermann, everything Hermann said, everything Hermann did), so he couldn’t really be blamed for wanting to talk about Hermann at any given chance. And it was just easier– “Back when we–you know–” Newt finally says, and Hermann tenses at the mention of Their Letters, “everyone just kind of  _assumed_  you were my boyfriend.”

(That’s not completely the truth. It was just easier to respond to the inquiries after who, exactly, the mysterious Dr. Gottlieb is with “he’s my long-distance boyfriend” than with “we’ve never met but we swap theories and hypotheses and  _Star Trek_  trivia and sometimes text way past when we both should be sleeping and he makes me feel like no one ever has before and I kind of want to run away with him.” And maybe Newt got a kick out of pretending Hermann was his boyfriend, that he’s got some sort of handsome genius stud waiting and pining for him across the sea and sending him long, flowery love letters.)

Conveniently, before Hermann can reply, the taxi pulls up outside the little hall where the pseudo-banquet-reunion-“one of our alumni helped save the world”-party thing is being held and Newt hops out immediately (leaving Hermann to take care of the fare, which is a dick move, but oh well, he’ll pay him back later). He does help Hermann from the car to the curb, though. “I hope you don’t expect me to play along with that,” Hermann hisses into his ear as Newt links their arms–habit at this point–and tugs him along inside.

“Of course not,” Newt says. “That would be ridiculous. Who do you  _take_ me for, Hermann?” He pauses just outside, door half-pushed open. “But, I mean, if you’re offering–”

“Dr. Geiszler!” one of his old colleagues exclaims, abruptly cutting Newt off. She comes forward and shakes his hand; she’s about fifteen years his senior, married, if Newt remembers, to someone in the chemistry department. She turns on Hermann next. “And is this Dr. Gottlieb?”

Newt said he was bringing a guest, but hadn’t specified on who–in retrospect, their little tour has been quite publicized, so it must’ve been pretty obvious it was Hermann. “Er, yes,” Hermann says (Newt’s old colleague shoots Newt a  _knowing_ look, shit, they  _do_ remember all of his dumb pining over Hermann), and then they’re whisked away to shake more hands, and glasses of champagne are thrust at them, and then Newt’s face to face with what constitutes the remainder of his old department and feeling uncomfortably sweaty.

“This is Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt’s colleague that had shown them in says to the rest of the group, patting Hermann on the arm, and Hermann gets a few polite nods. Then, pointedly, “Dr.  _Hermann_ Gottlieb.”  _That_  gets some looks.

“Hermann? Not the infamous Hermann!” one of them says, sizing Hermann up. Hermann stiffens under his stare.

“The very one,” Newt says weakly. “You want more champagne, Hermann? Let’s get more–”

“Newt used to talk about you  _all_ the time,” Newt’s colleague continues. It’s not like Newt expected them to not bring it up, but he didn’t think that’s what they would jump into  _immediately_. He hope no one brings up the pseduo-swear jar they implemented in the research lab that Newt used to have to put a quarter into any time he brought up Hermann’s latest letter more than once. He’s not sure if he could come back from that. “Every single day he’d talk about how  _smart_ you are, or how  _funny_ you are, or how  _handsome_ –”

“–and how he wanted to elope with you,” another continues. 

“Did he?” Hermann says, startling.

“Did I say that?” Newt squeaks. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Can we offer out congratulations, then?” Newt’s first colleague says, grinning at them. She starts eyeing up their hands, presumably for rings.

There’s no way Hermann will play along if Newt says yes. Newt does the only thing he can think of. “We broke up,” he blurts out.

“What?” All three of his old colleagues stare at him.

“Hermann and I broke up,” Newt says. “Uh. Just didn’t work out, you know.”

Hermann catches on. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, our relationship is–strictly professional, now. Completely so.”

“Oh,” one of Newt’s colleagues says. He coughs, obviously a bit uncomfortable.

“I was too much for Hermann to deal with,” Newt says, with a forced laugh,  _maybe_  revealing a bit too much about his insecurities, but it’s the truth. He would be too much for Hermann to deal with. Newt needs to sort of sell it, anyway, and his colleagues  _all_  saw how manic he could get. (Hermann would never want someone like Newt, and he’s come to terms with that.) “You know. Uh. Loud, needy–”

“Don’t be foolish,” Hermann says, surprising Newt. “I would never leave you for reasons as trivial as  _that_. I simply bored you.”

“You didn’t  _bore_  me!” Newt exclaims, forgoing the fake-exes thing he’d been trying to build up here. “You could never bore me, dude.” Is that what Hermann thinks about himself? “Shit, Hermann, is that what you think  _I_ think?”

“Do  _you_  think you’re too much for me to  _deal_ with?” Hermann says.

“Uh,” Newt says. “A little. I mean–”

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann says, “not only would I not leave you for trivial reasons, I would also not let a relationship with you–” his cheeks go pink. “Ah. Well, it’s not something I would let fail easily.”

“What, and I would?” Newt says. 

They stare at each other. Newt almost forgets they’re surrounded by other people, and in the middle of a party being thrown more or less in Newt’s honor. “Newton,” Hermann says, voice a little soft, and Newt’s heart races, “do you…?”

“Yeah,” Newt admits. “Do you?”

Hermann nods. He places his empty champagne flute on a nearby table to free up his left hand, and delicately takes Newt’s right, squeezes it. (Does this mean they’re going to make out or something later when they get back to their hotel? Newt hopes so.) Newt turns back to his colleagues, who followed the exchange with no small amount of confusion. “Right,” he says. “So, never mind, not broken up after all. What were we talking about?”


	42. sex pollen (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> for prompts, how do u feel about sex pollen/accidental aphrodisiac exposure... maybe in the context of an established relationship, maybe as the catalyst in a mutual pining situation? all up to ur good judgement of course
> 
> (established relationship!)

“I know this is kind of an unfortunate situation,” Newton pants, grinding his hips down, “but we more or less proved my hypothesis, so really–the day hasn’t been a  _complete_ –”

“Unfortunate situation,” Hermann says, urging Newton on by rubbing and massaging his thighs, and Newton moans happily and squeezes around him, “is putting it  _mildly_. How long has it been?” Hermann lost track of the time some three orgasms ago, but someone’s  _bound_ to stop by eventually. They do have a regular janitor in the Shatterdome, after all.

Newton ignores him in favor of working his hips faster, his whines getting higher, and Hermann shuts his eyes and lets his next orgasm wash over him with a little grunt. His erection  _still_  hasn’t flagged, he realizes, once everything has stop being pleasantly hazy, and Newton’s thighs are shaking with effort as he continues moving on top of Hermann. He’s come, too, though his cock remains hard and flushed. “Fuck,” Newton moans, half in disappointment, half in barely-concealed arousal. “Swap again?”

Hermann nods, though he doubts it’ll affect their situation that much. It hasn’t the last couple times. Newton braces himself with his palms on the steel of the lab floor and lifts himself from Hermann’s cock, and then gets on his knees in between Hermann’s legs. The sensation of Newton slipping into him (and with such  _ease_ ) is nothing new for today, but it still makes Hermann sigh pleasantly. “What were we talking about, dear?” Hermann says, as Newton starts fucking into him with wild little cries.

“Oh,” Newton says, “uh–my hypothesis? My hypothesis.”

Yes, of course, Newton’s hypothesis, which followed from the question  _what would happen if I poked this unidentified kaiju gland with a sharp instrument, completely disregarding any and all lab safety protocols by not wearing proper protective gear or informing my poor lab partner of my decision?_  Hypothesis: nothing good. Conclusion: hypothesis confirmed, Hermann proved right as always. Well.  _Nothing good_  is unfair. They had been in the middle of a petty quarrel at the time of Newton’s ill-advised decision to jab at the electric blue gland, after all, and they haven’t made love in nearly a week, and Hermann–frankly–was getting antsy without some of Newton’s intimate and nicely endorphin-releasing company. He can’t imagine how Newton (more pure energy than human being) must’ve been feeling. So they have that to thank Newton for. “You hypothesized,” Hermann groans, “that–a little harder, will you, oh, that’s nice–it’d produce–”

“Weird airborne aphrodisiacs?” Newton says, and bends over to circle his tongue over Hermann’s left nipple the way Hermann loves, then repeats it on the right. Hermann grabs at Newton’s sweaty hair and moans as Newton grazes with his teeth  _just_  lightly enough to tease. “No,” Newton continues, panting into Hermann’s chest as he frantically pistons his hips, “I didn’t, not exactly, not that specific, but I thought–”

“ _Ah_ –!” Hermann yanks his hair. “Oh, right  _there_ , yes, Newton…”

Newton whimpers–Hermann  _does_  forget what an effect pulling hair has on Newton–and obliges. “I thought that it’d be,” Hermann tugs Newton’s hair again and Newton swears violently, “oh, fuck, oh–something to do with pheromones or something. I didn’t know it would affect  _humans_.” He grazes Hermann’s prostate one last time just as he starts jerking his hand up and down on Hermann’s cock, and Hermann moans and orgasms yet again, and Newton tenses and cries out and spills in him  _yet again_ , too.

They’re both still hard. Newton’s bright red above him, hair sticking up at all ends and plastered to his forehead, sweat gathering at his brow, both dried and fresh come staining the colors on his chest. Hermann doesn’t think he looks much better. “Swap?” Newton suggests, voice hoarse, and straddles Hermann’s thighs in preparation of riding him once more.

“We need to go to medical,” Hermann protests, as dehydration is a  _very real_ possibility they face (but they don’t seem to be having a problem so far, perhaps this gland has more properties than Newton realizes) but he grabs Newton’s hips and waits eagerly for Newton to sink himself down and get right back to it.

“We will,” Newton assures him, arching his back. “Oh. We will.  _Hermann_ –”

 

They do, eventually, make it to medical once their arousals have finally,  _finally_  faded, but the staff doesn’t find anything wrong with Newton or Hermann, so all it does is make for an awkward conversation with the nurse on duty as to the nature of their visit. (“We couldn’t stop  _fucking_!” Newton finally exclaimed after minutes of roundabout euphemisms, and Hermann nearly wished for the ground to swallow them both up.)

“Maybe I could sell it,” Newton muses as he types up a report on the gland the next day. “Through the black market, or something. I could make enough to get us some cool new shit for the lab. Oh, how would you describe your orgasms resulting from the gland? Mind-blowing? Earth-shattering? That’s probably too hyperbolic for an official report…”

“The PPDC would have your hide,” Hermann says, not glancing away from his own computer. “As for the orgasms–is that  _really_  necessary information?”

Newton shrugs. “Just being thorough, man. This is just going in my own files anyway. No one’s gonna see it. But me.” Hermann can practically sense his leer. 

“Hm.” Hermann colors. “Exceptional, I’d say.”

Newton whirls around in his chair to stare at Hermann over Hermann’s computer, grin spreading across his face. “‘Exceptional’? That’s some  _high_   _praise_ , Doctor. Did I rock your world?”

“Perhaps,” Hermann says, lips also twitching up.

Newton spins back around. “I’m keeping the gland,” he calls over his shoulder. “Gotta replicate results, you know.”

Newton’s work ethic can be admirable, from time to time.


	43. domesticity during war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I'd love some hermann and newt being domestic during the war (not as a couple yet maybe?) You're amazing and I love your writing

It’s late in the evening when Newton peels off his gloves and tosses them into the bio-hazardous material bin, then edges up onto the side of Hermann’s desk. As with most of Newton’s actions, it’s an invasion of personal space that Hermann should likely complain about, but he can’t find it in himself to tonight. “Almost done?” Newton says.

Hermann blinks blearily behind his glasses at Newton–who looks about as equally tired–and nods. “Yes,” he says, and saves the digital file of today’s work. (A backup in case something were to happen to his meticulously handwritten notes.) “Is there something you need?”

“It’s Wednesday,” Newton points out. Of course–Wednesday is the night they usually go out to get dinner together somewhere in the city. (“To keep up a healthy working relationship,” Newton said–a bit sarcastically–when he first proposed the idea. “And to familiarize ourselves with the city.” The real reason is that the mess hall food becomes tiresome after a while, but Hermann can appreciate the false spirit of camaraderie.) “Want to do the same place as last week?”

Hermann would, but it’s late, and in all honesty, he’s  _exhausted_. All he really wants to do is lay in bed and rest his leg. Newton seems to catch on before Hermann even opens his mouth. “No worries, man,” Newton says. “I can run and get us stuff from the mess if you want.”

“I–” Hermann did not expect the gesture. Newton’s gotten him food plenty of times before, of course, and they don’t  _only_  eat together on Wednesdays, but he assumed Newton would go off on his own or just go to bed. Newton stares at him, waiting for an answer. (Hermann does, really, look forward to Wednesday outings with Newton; it sees a shame to miss one.) “Alright, then.”

“Cool.” Newton hops down from the desk. “You can chill in your room, if you want.”

Hermann leaves the door to his quarters unlocked for Newton when he goes to settle in on his bed, and Newton pushes it open some half hour later with a large tray in hand. “They were cleaning up for the night so they basically forced  _all_  the leftovers on me,” Newton says, scooting in next to Hermann. The tray is stacked with at least three plates. “There’s probably some good shit in here somewhere.” He balances it on his knee closest to Hermann and tries to pass Hermann a fork, but Hermann refuses.

“No eating in my bed,” Hermann says, despite making no move to get up and move to the desk in the corner of his room. “It’s–unsanitary.”

“It’s also  _comfy_ ,” Newton says, and pushes down on the mattress with his free hand. “Comfy as  _hell_ , Hermann, who’d you kill to get this?”

“I have my methods,” Hermann says, purposefully cryptic, and Newton grins delightedly. Hermann feels warm, especially with Newton so close (and in his bed–he should’ve thought this through), and he grabs the fork for something to do with himself. “If I find a  _single_  crumb in my sheets I’m submitting a formal complaint,” he says.

“Oh, a  _formal_ complaint? I’d like to read it.” Newton clears his throat, puts on a bad mimicry of Hermann’s accent, “‘Newton Geiszler is a  _menace_  who came into my  _personal quarters_  and  _refused_  to leave my bed–’”

“Exactly,” Hermann says, avoiding Newton’s eyes, and stabs into a roll at random. Newton grabs a roll for himself a moment later, pink in the face.


	44. college au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> What about college style newmann (roommates/pining penpalls/labpartners/whatever)

There’s a super cute guy sitting off to the side in the Student Union that Newt’s never seen before and has spent the night eyeing up–dark undercut, cane, thick sweater with sleeves that are a bit too long, big round glasses on a chain, legitimate  _saddle shoes_ –and Newt’s  _determined_  to get his number by the time he leaves.

Guys like guys who play the guitar, right? The guys Newt usually picks up always think it’s cool. Saddle shoes-undercut guy didn’t seem  _super_  invested when Newt and his band were up on the little stage and he didn’t put down his book the entire time, but maybe he’s just trying to play it cool. Not let on how much Newt’s amazing guitar skills and even more amazing singing impressed him.

Newt swings his guitar over his shoulder, nods goodbye to the two other guys that constitute the band–a gig well done, congratulations all around, maybe they’ll actually get paid next time, probably not–and sidles up to the cute guy’s ratty old armchair. “Hey,” Newt says, trying his best to look cool and aloof and angling himself  _just_  enough so that his guitar is visible. The guy glances up at Newt, looking mildly annoyed.

“Hello,” he says. He has some sort of posh British accent. It’s  _also_  very cute. He hasn’t closed his book, which is a sign that Newt’s gotta make small talk fast before he gets bored and tells Newt to fuck off in nicer words.  _But_  the guy does have a little rainbow flag button pinned to the small tote bag he brought with him, so that’s at least a sign that Newt isn’t batting in the completely wrong proverbial ballpark. Or barking up the wrong proverbial tree.

Newt scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground. “I haven’t seen you around campus before,” he says. “Are you new?” The guy doesn’t look like a freshman–he looks Newt’s age. Maybe he’s an international student. The next semester doesn’t officially start for another two days, so it makes sense that Newt wouldn’t have had the chance to run into him yet if that’s the case.

“Yes, in a sense,” the guy says. “I’ll be here for the year.”

“You are international then!” Newt says. He pulls his guitar off and leans it up against the wall next to the guy’s cane, then steals the empty armchair next to him. The guy’s mild annoyance is replaced with mild alarm. “That’s so cool. I really wanted to go abroad but I didn’t have enough credit space. Sucks, but whatever. Not sure why you’d come to  _America_ of all places, but…” Hermann doesn’t say anything. Newt picks at some of the black nail polish that’s begun to chip off his fingernails. He should put a new coat on. “What’s your major?”

“Physics,” the guy says, “but I’ll be taking some engineering courses while I’m here, as well.” He looks Newt up and down–his jean jacket covered in patches, his Godzilla shirt, his bracelets, his pierced ears, his scuffed and unlaced floral docs, his tattoos. “I don’t imagine we’ll be having many classes together.”

Newt grins. “Imagine again,” he says, finally recognizing the book the guy’s reading–it’s a required text for one of the lectures Newt’s in this semester. “I do biochem  _and_  engineering.” He taps at the guy’s book. “So it looks like I’ll be seeing you every Tuesday-Thursday evening from four to six. With lab on Friday mornings.”

“Ah,” the guy says, and his cheeks go a little pink. His oversized glasses slip down his nose. It makes Newt’s chest twist in a funny way. “I see. Apologies. I didn’t mean…”

He trails off. There’s a bit of an awkward lull in the conversation; onstage, another band is readying themselves to play. “I’m Newt, by the way,” Newt says, realizing he hasn’t actually introduced himself yet.

“Hermann,” the guy says. He shuts his book carefully. Score one point Newt. “Gottlieb.”

“So, Hermann,” Newt says, his grin back, entirely prepared to enter full flirt mode, “what’d you think of my band?”

Hermann’s eyes go to the guitar propped up between them, and he looks amused. (Not overcome with lust, like Newt was hoping, but he can’t have everything.) “I’ve never heard that many Pixies covers back to back,” he says. “I’m rather impressed.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty versatile,” Newt says, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated casualness. “Once we even covered a Mountain Goats song, too.”

“Even  _more_  impressive,” Hermann says. He’s smiling, leaning in. He’s totally interested. Maybe now’s the time that Newt can swoop in, get his number, take him out on a bunch of dates, then they fall in love and–the lead of the next band taps the microphone, and static from the speakers fills the union. Hermann winces. “Another one?” he says, and scowls at the stage.

“Yeah, man,” Newt laughs. “It’s open mic night. What did you expect?”

“I didn’t expect  _anything_ ,” Hermann says. “My roommate has his girlfriend over and I was just trying to find somewhere quiet to–wait it out.”

Newt forgot that international students have to live in the underclassmen dorms, which means double rooms; Newt’s had his classy senior-privilege single for less than a week and he already can’t imagine how he ever used to live with anyone else. He’s about to suggest Hermann try the library, but remembers their hours run short this week. “We could go back to mine?” Newt suggests, heart thudding a bit.

Hermann rolls his eyes. “How  _charitable_ ,” he says.

“I don’t mean like  _that_ ,” Newt insists, holding up his hands in defense. Hermann arches an eyebrow. Newt lowers his hands. “Okay, I mean, I  _was_  going to ask you for your number, but–” Which is not to say Newt wasn’t intending on inviting Hermann back to his place and meaning it like that  _eventually_ , just that it was the last event on a long chain of properly wining and dining him. Or buying him a bunch of cheap beer and Chinese takeout, which is effectively the same thing. “I meant I don’t have a roommate,” Newt says, “so it’d be quiet. I could make us coffee, or something?” That’s desperate. “Watch a movie?” Even more desperate.

“Thank you for the offer,” Hermann says, nice and polite, and he sounds like he means it, “but it  _has_  gotten late. They’ve likely finished by now.” He slips his book back into his tote bag and grabs his cane, but he hesitates, not standing up yet. “May I have your phone?” he says.

“Uh. Okay.” Newt squeezes his hand into the pocket of his skinny jeans and pulls out his old, cracked iPhone. He unlocks it and hands it over to Hermann, and Hermann begins fiddling with it. “What are you–?” Hermann hands it back over to him, cheeks a deeper pink than before. The contacts app is open, and there’s a new number entered into it, and above it,  _Hermann Gottlieb_. “ _Oh_.”

“Don’t feel obliged, of course,” Hermann says quickly, “but–you did say–”

“Yeah,” Newt says, smiling goofily. “I did. Wow. Cool.”

Hermann nods, a little stiffly, and hoists himself to his feet. He’s smiling again too. “Goodnight, Newt. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Okay,” Newt says, heart thudding faster. “See you Tuesday! Cool!”

He waits until Hermann’s out of sight, and then adds a few heart emojis after Hermann’s name. He  _really_ hopes that they can pick their own lab partners.

(They don’t, but to Newt’s–and to a lesser extent, Hermann’s–delight, it’s done alphabetically, and  _Geiszler_ and  _Gottlieb_ happen to fall next to each other in the class roster.)


	45. beauty and the beast au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> im Really diggin the idea of a beauty and the beast au,,,,,,,

The day has taken a turn that Hermann did not expect when he woke this morning prepared to spend it alone and brooding as usual. For one thing, there’s a man in his foyer. For another, the man does not appear to be leaving any time soon. Typically when travelers stumble upon Hermann’s castle, it’s entirely by accident, and they flee the second they lay eyes on Hermann. But this man–

“Aren’t you  _frightened_?” Hermann growls, half in irritation, half in bewilderment.

The man–who’s named Newton, Hermann learned, by way of quick introduction after Newton unceremoniously barged through his castle doors, deposited a little suitcase on the floor, and tossed his jacket on the coat hook, all the while yelling about the long walk there and how cold it is, the castle has fifty chimneys, how has Hermann not lit a single fireplace–scoffs. “Why should I be?” he says.

A number of reasons. The wolves lurking in the dark woods surrounding the castle. The castle itself–old, decrepit, deserted, rumored haunted by the locals in the village beyond (rumors that Hermann routinely stokes himself, what with all his lurking in shadows, to keep up his privacy). Newton should be afraid of  _Hermann_ , some seven feet tall, clawed and fanged, clothing torn and tattered, like some sort of walking nightmare or monster from a children’s book, and he should be afraid of the way Hermann emerged snarling from the shadows when Newton dared set foot on his property.

But Newton wasn’t afraid when he saw Hermann, and he isn’t afraid now. If anything, he looks–fascinated.

Newton reaches out towards one of Hermann’s claws, and Hermann flinches away. (Hermann hasn’t touched a human being in some ten years.) “The villagers told me ‘the devil himself’ lurked here,” Newton says, unperturbed by Hermann’s sudden movement, and he continues reaching out until he can stroke gently at a claw, “and that you’d eat me or something.” He gives Hermann a long (and appreciative?) once-over. “They didn’t say you’d be  _hot_ , man.”

Hot? “Hot?” Hermann says.

Newton grins up at him. There’s a little glint in his eyes. Newton isn’t bad looking himself, truthfully, now that they’re on the subject of attraction. He’s short (shorter than Hermann’s human form), a little soft around the middle, and he’s got messy brown hair and glasses that keep sliding down his nose. “One might say  _sexy_ ,” Newton says. He wraps his fingers around the claw (nearly as big as a single one of Newton’s hands). “I certainly would.”

Hermann’s not sure if he’s even capable of blushing anymore, in his current monstrous state, but his face does feel distinctly warmer. “You sought me out  _willingly_?” he says, once the full extent of Newton’s previous words have sunk in. Surely Newton must be  _mad_ , then–what kind of man is warned of a hideous beast lurking in the woods and decides to go  _look_  for it? (And then  _flirts_  with it?)

“Yeah.” Newton shrugs. “Everyone thinks I’m weird back home, you know, so I don’t have anyone to talk to. You sounded like you might be fun company.” He lets go of Hermann and rolls up his shirtsleeves, revealing ink snaking up his forearms. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Hermann,” Hermann says. And, in case it matters (because Newton  _is_  appealing to look at, maybe it might make him want to stay a bit longer), adds, “You should know my state isn’t permanent.”

Newton looks up sharply. “It’s not?” he says. He sounds disappointed, which is a reaction Hermann did not anticipate.

“I was cursed,” Hermann explains. “I’m really as human as you.” Hermann usually tries not to dwell on his memories of being human, as it usually just upsets him, but he really _does_  miss it. It was much easier to attend to his studies and work telescopes and pens and chalkboards when he was human, and (as his knee injury carried over into his monstrous form) he hasn’t been able to find a suitably  _strong enough_  replacement for his old, and unfortunately quite shattered, cane yet. He was also rather fond of his cheekbones.

Newton nods slowly. “Cursed,” he repeats. “Well, what’s the catch? How are you supposed to break it? True love?”

“Essentially,” Hermann concedes. It’snice to get this all off his chest. He hasn’t had another person to talk to in–well, ever, now that he thinks about it, something that Newton evidently understands intimately. “Someone must fall in love with me. And I must fall in love in return. As you can imagine I haven’t had much luck in breaking it.”

Newton undoes a button on his shirt. “I  _see_ ,” he says, sounding very much like he  _doesn’t_ see why Hermann hasn’t had much luck. It does wonders for Hermann’s ego. When Newton notices Hermann staring at his newly bared throat, he loosens his little cravat (patterned with flowers and what looks to be tiny lizards) and undoes another two buttons. “Well, Hermann, tell you what. You let me chill here with you for a bit, and I bet I can do it in _no time_.”

Newton smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. Hermann doesn’t doubt him. “If you’re sure, then. Of course–” Hermann feels warm again,  _confound_ this odd little man, “–you’re welcome to stay for as long as you’d like. No caveats attached.” 

“Hey, cool!” Newton says, and just like that his demeanor changes from fascinationback to flirtatious. “You know, for the record,” he bats his eyelashes and leans up on the tips of his boots to press a hand to Hermann’s large chest, “ _this_  is really doing it for me, too.”


	46. vacation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> silly prompt time: newmann on vacation, somewhere near the sea. newton goes to the city and buys a cheap booze from, one may argue, a questionable place. the results of such actions go as well as you may predict

The rental website promised them three bottles of wine–one red, one white, one rose–in the fridge or cabinet when they arrived. A special treat for the illustrious Drs. Geiszler-Gottlieb on behalf of the world, and to a lesser extent, the rental agency. Now, as they face an empty fridge and an even emptier cabinet, Newt wonders as to the ethics of complaining about lack of delivery of a free–but promised–gift. “Not a single bottle,” Newt says. “What are we supposed to do?” **  
**

“Go to the beach without wine?” Hermann suggests. He’s in that dorky striped linen shirt Newt likes, a sunhat so big the brim covers his eyes, and khaki shorts that go past his knees. Newt loves him so much his heart aches.

“It’s our honeymoon,” Newt says, offended that Hermann would even suggest the prospect, “and we saved the world, and we’re old bastards. We deserve to get hammered on the beach.  _I’ll_  get the wine.” He snags the car keys off of the dresser.

Hermann pushes up the brim of his hat to give Newt an imploring look. “Can’t we just enjoy the day and worry about wine later?” (He doesn’t say what Newt  _knows_  he wants to say, which is that Newt’s driving is questionable at best and he doesn’t exactly trust Newt with the–okay,  _Hermann’s_ –car.)

Usually Newt would worry about this later, damn the wine, but the prospect of them both getting plastered with some idyllic backdrop means a relaxed Hermann who’s less embarrassed about getting handsy in public. On a beach, no less. A kaiju-free beach. “Nope,” Newt says, and jingles the keys merrily in Hermann’s face before kissing his cheek goodbye and skipping out the front door.

The nearest liquor-selling establishment is a twenty minute drive into town, and Newt gets lost twice on the way there. Actually  _entering_  the liquor store is a trip too–Newt’s experience with wine pretty much stops at the shitty boxed variety, and one time, some weird mint chocolate eggnog-flavored wine that Tendo brought to a New Year’s party as a joke, so he doesn’t really know where to begin–and nearly  _everything_  in the place is on sale, which can’t be a good sign. Still, Newt says, debates champagne, and beer, and some weird stout that’s mixed with coffee or something, before finding a tall bottle of some novelty, electric-blue vodka on the (large) discount shelf. Half off. Nice. “Is this supposed to be kaiju blue?” Newt says to the guy working the register, waving it.

The guy shrugs. Newt puts a bottle on the counter.

 

Hermann’s waiting impatiently on the wicker chair on the beach house porch when Newt strolls up some time later. The sun’s already setting so Hermann should be thanking him, really; there’s less chance of either of them getting sunburned, something Hermann complains endlessly about. More than Newt does. “ _Finally_ ,” Hermann says. He hoists himself to his feet. He’s wearing his cute round glasses still, too. “Off to the beach, then?”

Newt hands Herman the blue bottle, and Hermann blanches. “One second,” Newt says, already wiggling out of his t-shirt. “Gotta get ready.”

“Where’s the  _wine_?” Hermann says. “I thought you went out–” But Newt’s shutting the door behind himself and stripping out of his shorts.

 

Newt’s prediction was right: Hermann is a little more amenable to going at it on the sand after they’ve each had a few drinks, especially once the sun sets and it’s just them on the beach. Unfortunately, the weird vodka is a bit more  _potent_  than he realized and they go from  _pleasantly buzzed_  to  _giddily tipsy_ in hardly any time at all. It doesn’t help that they’re both, admittedly, lightweights. Newt realizes he’s made a mistake after the third time he goes in to kiss Hermann and hits the tip of his nose with his lips instead of his mouth. But Hermann giggles, which is exponentially cuter than anything Newt’s heard in his life.

“Wine,” Newt declares into the crook of Hermann’s neck. “We should’ve just gotten wine. I should’ve.” He’s sprawled happy across Hermann’s chest, his knees resting on the blanket on either side of Hermann, careful not to put pressure on Hermann’s leg. He’s all sandy, too; before ultimately falling into a heap of kisses with Hermann, Newt thought it’d be fun to build a bunch of sandcastles and stomp through them like Godzilla. And it  _was_  fun, if maybe in slightly questionable taste given recent events, but this is  _more_  fun.

Hermann’s hat is askew (he hasn’t taken it off yet) and the top of his linen shirt is undone. He strokes through Newt’s hair affectionately. “Newton,” he says, “my dear Newton. Dear man.”

Hermann hasn’t been this tipsy since the little party they threw at the Shatterdome after the world didn’t end. It’s  _also_  adorable. The side of his glasses bump into the side of Newt’s with a little clack. “Mm?” Newt hums. Hermann strokes his hair again.

“I am very fond of you,” Hermann says.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Newt snorts. “You did marry me.” He kisses the little exposed bit of Hermann’s neck, brushing his lips against the linen collar of his shirt. He tries to wriggle his hands between their bodies to unclasp another one of Hermann’s buttons, but Hermann shakes his head.

“Ah. Not here.” He pats Newt’s back. “I don’t want to get sand on me.”

“Fair,” Newt sighs. The chafing would be a bitch. He snuggles in again. The waves on crashing gently on the shore make for some nice, relaxing background noise. Newt could almost fall asleep. His eyelids feel heavy.

“Newton,” Hermann murmurs, “stars. Above us.”

“Mm,” Newt hums again, not bothering to look up at the sky, and he noses at Hermann’s neck, the beginning of the fuzzy bit of his undercut.

Hermann prods his back again. “Please don’t fall asleep on me,” he says. He sounds muffled.

It’s a block back to the rental. A block back over dunes, and then up uneven stairs, stairs they’ll  _certainly_ both end up stumbling down if they attempt to climb. He’s doing them  _both_  a favor if he falls asleep here. “It’s cool,” Newt says. “We’re fine like this.” He shifts his hands to the blanket so he’s bracing less of his weight on Hermann. It’s so fucking cool being married to Hermann, you know? “It’s so fucking  _cool_ ,” Newt says, sitting up to look Hermann in the eyes, “being marriedto you.” He bumps his nose against Hermann’s.

Hermann’s hands go to Newt’s sides, and he squeezes them gently. “Newton,” he declares, “I feel  _exactly_  the same.” And then his eyelids start to droop, glasses and hat and all. Newt rolls off and lands heavily on the sheet they brought with them, then cuddles up against Hermann. “I’m not falling asleep,” Hermann mumbles into his hair.

“Of course not,” Newt agrees, with a snicker. They’ll make it back to the rental eventually.


	47. composed top hermann round two! (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> oh my god that last pwp was so good. could we have more in that vein, with hermann being totally composed and nonchalantly dispassionate while he's topping newt? because that was HOT.

Hermann’s a right bastard when he wants to be, which has never come as a surprise to Newt, but Hermann usually refrains from letting a sour mood carry over into the bedroom. The bedroom is their peace treaty, where they forget all the day’s arguments, all the day’s disagreements, and sometimes they cuddle and sometimes they fuck.  _Usually_ , they fuck, and usually Hermann’s always real soft about it, little touches and little kisses, calling Newt good, good job, Newton, wonderful job, and usually it drives Newt wild, usually, usually, but Hermann’s being cold tonight. Distant.

“Hey,” Newt says after a depressing shower alone, and he stands nude and barefoot in the middle of the bedroom and towels at his hair. “What’s the deal, dude?”

Newt  _might_  know what the deal is. Newt wasa bit of a mess today–like always–and maybe ignored Hermann when Hermann asked him nicely to be  _less_ of a mess, and then ignored Hermann when Hermann  _yelled_  at him to be less of a mess, and then they got into a shouting match and Newt ate lunch alone, but that was, like, eight hours ago, and all over a little bit of spilled acid on some barely-important papers. Hermann can’t  _really_ still be mad about that.

But Hermann’s in bed and in pajamas already, which isn’t a good sign, and he ignores Newt, which is even less of a good sign. (Usually: they shower together, make a little foreplay out of it–Hermann has a  _thing_  for groping Newt’s ass, especially when they’re soapy–and then they towel off and stay naked and don’t stop staying naked until after they’ve fucked. Hermann skipped the shower, and by the looks of it, he intends to skip the fucking too.) “ _Hermann_ ,” Newt repeats, and drops to his knees on the mattress. “Babe. Hermann. Sweetheart. Are you  _still_  mad at me?”

“What do youthink?” Hermann says, disdainful and scowling. Hermann’s unfairly sexy with he’s pissed off. Newt was horny in the shower, thought about Hermann screwing him the whole time he was in there, but Hermann acting like this is just making him hornier.

Newt crawls towards him. “I’m sorry for being a brat,” he says, dropping himself down atop Hermann so he’s straddling Hermann’s waist, one knee on each side. He leans down, ghosts his lips over Hermann’s. “Can we fuck now?”

“No,” Hermann says, cold.

Newt sits up and pouts. He rubs his hips down; he feels Hermann’s cock twinge beneath the layers of bedsheets and pajama bottoms. Hermann goes commando to bed, which means Newt could pull his cock out in a flash if he wanted, settle himself down overtop of it. “Hermann,” Newt repeats in a little purr, “can we fuck now?”

Hermann doesn’t reach out for Newt, like Newt had been hoping; he doesn’t grasp Newt’s soft sides, or his knead his ass, or grab him by the shoulders and yank him down into a kiss. He just folds his arms in his lap. “ _No_ ,” he says. “I don’t intend to reward your behavior today.” He looks down at Newt’s half-hard dick, sniffs, the perfect portrait of indifference, but Newt feels how hard Hermann is, too. “You’ll have to deal with  _that_  all by yourself.”

So they’re doing this, then. Newt tugs one of Hermann’s arms, circles his fingers loosely around one of Hermann’s wrists and brings Hermann’s hand to his mouth. Hermann has such sexy fingers, and they feel even sexier knuckles-deep in Newt’s ass. Or, perhaps more relevant for the moment, knuckles-deep in Newt’s mouth. Newt swirls his fingers around two of them, sucks, grazes his teeth on the skin, but Hermann’s face remains impassive. So Newt amps it up, draws in a third, moans like a whore when he grinds his hips down again and feels Hermann’s cock twitch almost imperceptibly. His chin is sloppy and messy with drool when he finally pulls Hermann’s fingers–equally messy–from his mouth and places them atop his own chest instead. “ _Hermann_ ,” he begs, rubbing Hermann’s hand against one of his nipples, and he arches into the touch, the little twinge of white-hot pleasure. “Touch me, babe, come on, come on, touch me…”

Hermann settles against his pillows. His face is flushed. He keeps his arm limp. He doesn’t touch Newt.

It’s a game, Newt knows, something intended to keep Newt in line. They’ve done it before. Hermann’s lain flat while Newt’s worked himself furiously up and down Hermann’s cock before, sucked Hermann off while Hermann read the newspaper on top of his head (Hermann looked down at him, glasses still on, and said “Are you nearly finished?”), let Newt squirm in his lap and take their cocks in his hand and jerk them both off while Hermann typed out a reply to an email, and every time it–the little display of power, of acting like he’s doing Newt a favor by shoving his cock up his ass or down his throat and getting absolutely nothing out of the experience–excites Newt just as much as Hermann  _outright_  taking charge. Newt pulls Hermann’s free hand to his mouth and laves over more of his fingers while he pinches his nipple between two fingertips of the other. “Hermann,” Newt moans around Hermann’s index finger, “ _Hermann_.”

“How  _needy_ you are, Newton,” Hermann observes, the flush spreading down his neck, and his pupils are wide and dark. “And  _using_ me like this. Shameful, really. You just want a nice warm body to get off on, don’t you? You don’t care  _who_  it is.”

“Uh-uh,” Newt protests, taking Hermann’s index finger out of his mouth with an obscene pop, and he slides the hand on his chest down to his cock. “Hermann, Hermann, it’s just you, I only want–” Hermann doesn’t take Newt’s cock into his grasp like Newt’s hoping he would, just lets his hand lay there. Newt lets out a frustrated whine. “ _Please_ touch me.”

Hermann licks his lips. “No,” he says.

Newt closes his fingers around Hermann’s saliva-slick ones, groans at the sensation of touch where he needs it most. “Oh,” he breathes, dragging Hermann’s hand up over his cock once, twice, squeezing hard, “oh,  _oh_ –”

“Greedy little man,” Hermann scolds, but it sounds like praise, and Newt grinds his ass down against the bulge of Hermann’s cock beneath the sheets and fucks into Hermann’s tight fist. Newt’s head falls back, his mouth falls open. “Greedy,” Hermann repeats. “ _Filthy_.”

“Yes,” Newt moans. He pulls Hermann’s other hand back up to his mouth and starts sucking on his fingers again, chokes he’s so eager, and Hermann’s hips nearly twitch upwards. He wishes he was sucking Hermann’s cock instead. He wishes Hermann would touch him. Hermann’s hand around his dick is wet with spit and Newt’s precome, and Newt cants his ass up, drags Hermann’s hand lower, past his balls, back to rub one delicate finger over his asshole. He nearly sobs. “Please,  _please,”_ he begs, barely audible, and he grinds into the sheets covering Hermann’s cock and rubs Hermann’s finger against his hole harder.

Hermann’s expression bordering on outright  _bored_ is what finally, finally pushes Newt over the edge, and he spills over Hermann’s clean sheets and nice plaid pajamas and collapses to Hermann’s chest. Hermann withdraws his hands and pats Newt’s back gently. “Well done, Newton,” Hermann murmurs, and warmth bubbles in Newt’s chest at the praise and he makes an embarrassing happy little sound. “You were wonderful. Do you think you could do something for me, now?”

Hermann’s dick is stiff enough to be painful from the little show Newt put on. Newt knows what Hermann wants, and he’s more than happy to give it to him. He reaches down the front of Hermann’s pajamas and jerks him off with erratic little tugs, slicking Hermann’s cock with some of his own release that stains Hermann’s pajama shirt. “Is that good, Hermann?” Newt mumbles, nuzzling and kissing at Hermann’s throat. “Do you feel good?”

“ _Very_  good,” Hermann pants, “oh,  _yes_ , Newton, yes–” Hermann comes without much fanfare, just a small, quiet sigh, his eyes fluttering shut, his long lashes looking sweet against the curve of his cheekbone.

“You know,” Newt says after a bit, drowsy and sated as Hermann smooths his hand down Newt’s back once more, “you’re not doing a very good job of making me want to behave.”

“Hush,” Hermann says.


	48. domestic professor husbands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Ughhhhhhhhghggggh school started today and I could really use some cheering up w cute newmann stuff, if you’re feeling up to it
> 
> (domestic professor husbands dealing with school starting too!)

“You don’t have to pack me a lunch,” Hermann assures Newton, but Newton shakes his head, presses the little brown paper bag to Hermann’s chest.  _Hermann_ , he’s scribbled on it in black Sharpie, and surrounded that with little drawings of hearts and rocket ships.

“Yes I do,” Newton says. He stands on the tips of his toes and plants a little kiss on Hermann’s cheek; Hermann makes a little noise when Newton tries to pull away, and Newton grins, tugs on Hermann’s collar and kisses his lips instead. “Have fun at  _work_ while I’m here living it up,” Newton says, like they both haven’t been itching to get back into doing something with their time now that the world–more or less–isn’t under intergalactic threat, like Newton’s classes don’t start tomorrow and he’ll be busy editing his syllabus today, last minute as always. They’re both on campus Monday through Thursday, but Newton’s Mondays are taken up solely with labs which don’t start for another week.

“Run a load of laundry while I’m gone, will you, dear?” Hermann says as he shrugs his blazer on, but Newton’s not listening, already distracted by the television. He’s still in pajamas, his glasses lopsided, his hair a disaster. Hermann itches to ruffle it. Or maybe  _comb_ it.

“Yeah,” Newton says, flipping through channels, “uh-huh. Bye. Love you.”

It’s ridiculous, really, that little casual reminders of Newton’s affections for him should still make Hermann’s chest twist pleasurably and his cheeks feel warm three years into marriage. “I love you too,” he says. Newton looks over his shoulder and grins.

“Sap,” Newton says. Hermann clutches the lunch bag in his left hand but doesn’t leave just yet. (Newton looks very  _cute_ , see, still all sleepy and scruffy like that.) Newton watches him linger. He flicks off the television. “C’mere,” he says, and crooks a finger, and Hermann hurries over, rests his cane and the little brown paper bag on the carpet when he takes the seat next to Newton.

“I’ll be late for work,” he protests anyway, weak even to his own ears, as Newton straddles his lap, sneaks a hand up under his blazer, plants more little kisses across his cheeks and nose. 

“Oh, I  _bet_ ,” Newton says, and kisses the side of his neck. “But, you know, traffic is probably awful. It’s not your fault.”

“And certainly not the fault of my  _very_  distracting husband,” Hermann adds. Unfairly handsome and alluring, too, even in nothing but Hermann’s boxers and a baggy  _Star Trek_ shirt.

“ _Distracting_?” Newton snorts, and Hermann ruffles his hair like he’s wanted to all morning and angles Newton’s head up to steal a proper kiss.

He makes it to work on time, fortunately, slogs through his morning class–none of his physics gen ed students seem particularly thrilled at the end of summer break and spend most of his explanation of class rules and policies dozing off at their desks. The afternoon class should be better, since it’ll be mostly all students Hermann had last year or the year before that.

His lunch break is lonely without Newton there to steal bites of his sandwich and debate innocuous subjects, but the little brown paper bag he packed Hermann has a little note tucked inside under the two oranges and when Hermann unfolds it, he ducks his head with a little shy smile. It’s nothing particularly romantic, or particularly scandalous, for that matter, just a little doodle of a tiny, cartoony Hermann holding hands with a tiny, cartoony Newton, a host of little hearts surrounding their heads, Newton’s name scrawled below.  _I miss you_ , he texts Newton (because it’s the truth: it’s hard to get work done alone in his office after years upon years of Newton breathing down his neck and peering over his shoulder in their tiny lab and offering endless criticisms, often unwanted but nevertheless helpful). 

Newton replies with little heart emoticons.


	49. baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> How about for a prompt Newt blurting out "I love you" in the middle of an argument?

“You’re measuring it wrong,” Hermann says.

Newt doesn’t break eye contact he dumps a cup of cake flour into the measuring bowl, and Hermann fidgets in his seat. Newt can feel him itching to get up, shove Newt aside, and take over. “No, I’m not.”

Hermann fidgets again. “The recipe calls for–”

“People who follow recipes are losers,” Newt cuts in, and then cracks a few eggs directly into the bowl too. “Was it two or three?” he says, feigning confusion, just to watch Hermann squirm. It works.

“If you’ll just let me  _help_ ,” Hermann says, and Newt shakes his head.

“No way you’re helping with your own birthday cake.” Newt waves an empty eggshell aggressively at him. “Just sit there and look pretty.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Hermann says, “ _and_  you’re making a mess of our kitchen.” 

“It’s the same thing as cooking,” Newt says. He’s  _great_  at cooking. Hermann needs to calm down a little. Newt turns on the mixer to the highest speed and flour goes shooting out in all directions, giving both Newt and the kitchen counters the appearance of having been caught in a particularly nasty blizzard. “Shit.”

“Oh, Newton,” Hermann groans. 

“I know,” Newt says, “I know, I’ll clean it up, shut up.” He fumbles to turn the mixer setting down–all while flour still puffs up in vague little clouds–and he hears Hermann stand, hears the tap of his cane on linoleum. Hermann reaches around him and unplugs the mixer. “ _Hey_.” Newt turns to scowl at him, their noses nearly bumping together.

“You are a menace to society,” Hermann says.

“You’re annoying,” Newt says.

Hermann brushes some flour off the front of Newt’s apron and his stern facade cracks and he smiles, so small Newt almost misses it. “You’re ridiculously handsome even when you’re covered in cake batter, you horrid little man.” Newt looks pensively between his own flour-covered hand and Hermann’s pristine sweater, and carefully swipes across his chest, staining the plaid. Hermann makes an offended little noise. “ _Newton_ , I just washed–”

“I love you,” Newt says, grinning, and he pulls Hermann in by the front of his messy sweater and kisses him, and Hermann’s smile grows.


	50. love realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> prompt: smthn based off of 'Girl Inform Me' by the shins with hermann starting to realize he loves newt but also absolutely abhorring the thought and trying to deny it and then proceeding to swoon over newts every move

It’s not the realization itself that distresses Hermann. He’s always figured something like this was bound to happen eventually, after all; Newton is his oldest friend, as well as his oldest rival, and they spend every waking moment together. And Newton isn’t exactly  _bad-looking_. It’s simply the manner in which the realization comes to him. Hermann could’ve stomached Newton winning him over with some grand noble gesture–perhaps Hermann slips and falls from his ladder and Newton catches him, or Hermann forgets his coat in the lab one day and is cold and Newton insists Hermann take his leather jacket. He could’ve stomached catching sight of Newton in sweatpants looking soft and sleepy in the morning, or becoming distracted by Newton’s laughter, but of course it isn’t any of those things.

Hermann realizes he’s in love with Newton when Newton goes off on a tirade about processed snack food, of all things.

“Obviously it’s not the worst part about the war,” Newton says, gesticulating a little too violently with kaiju organs that look a little too close to dripping  _stuff_ on Hermann’s important notes, “but the rationing is high on the list. Do you remember Oreos?”

Hermann remembers Oreos.

“They used to have so many  _flavors_. Apple pie and iced coffee and Halloween and shit.”

“Halloween isn’t a flavor,” Hermann says.

“Halloween is  _absolutely_  a flavor,” Newton says, and then he rips something from the kaiju corpse with a sickeningly loud noise that makes Hermann wince. “Halloween flavored pretzels, Halloween flavored chocolate–”

Hermann has very important work to do, work the fate of the world depends on, and yet he sets down his chalk and rises to the bait. “How can something  _taste_ like Halloween?” he says.

“ _Fuck_ , I miss Pop-Tarts too,” Newton says, apparently having moved on. “And Hot Pockets. What’s so funny?”

Hermann is smiling. Hermann did not mean to start smiling. “Nothing,” he says, and turns quickly, cursing his treacherous, treacherous subconscious, and cursing  _Newton_ , for being so–Newton. 

“Hot pockets,” Newton continues, and Hermann feels his heart flutter a bit and thinks  _oh, hell._

* * *

Newton is obnoxious. Newton is crass. Newton is a constant thorn in his side. Newton’s eyes are a pleasant green-blue-hazel. Newton has a lovely smile. Newton is playing the Jurassic Park theme over and over on his keyboard while Hermann is trying to sleep.

Hermann wants to shove the Shatterdome blueprints down the throat of whoever decided the research division headquarters should be directly off the lab. He snatches his cane from his bedside, storms out into the lab and levels a glare as furious and threatening as he can manage–given the fact that he’s currently dressed in plaid pyjamas and his hair is sticking up in five different angles–at Newton. 

Newton is also in pyjamas. “Hey, Hermann,” he says loudly, not stilling his fingers. (He’s truly got a gift for music–a pity he couldn’t choose to employ it at a time other than three in the morning.) “I couldn’t sleep.”

“No,” Hermann says.

“Yeah, okay,” Newton agrees, and shuts the keyboard off.

Coincidentally, Hermann cannot sleep now either, so he accepts Newton’s offer of a shared tea on the lab sofa. It’s strange, the little things he notices about Newton now that he knows he has  _feelings_ for the man. How sturdy his hands are. How warm his skin is when their fingertips brush as Newton hands over a mug. How  _sweet_  Newton looks with hair messier than Hermann’s and drooping eyelids. Frankly, all things Hermann would’ve  _killed_ to have been the jump-start of those feelings for Newton. “You play well,” he tells Newton, absent-mindedly, and Newton chokes on a mouthful of too-sweet tea.

* * *

Newton is dripping water on the lab floor–he forgot an umbrella, despite Hermann’s repeated reminders to bring one, and presumably got caught in a rainstorm–and he looks so pathetic Hermann can’t help but feel sorry for him. He drags the blanket from the sofa over and tosses it across Newton, and after fumbling with it for a few moments, Newton’s head pokes out from beneath it. His hair is plastered to his head, and his cheeks are pink beneath his freckles. “It’s raining,” Newton says, and grins sheepishly.

He’s so pathetic Hermann wants to take him to bed. Perhaps to simply tuck him in, perhaps to do unspeakable things to him. He does neither.

* * *

“What?” Newton says. “It’s called lab safety, Hermann.”

He’s in a silly apron and protective goggles that make his eyes seem twice their usual size, and Hermann is–frankly–head over heels. “That doesn’t exactly look PPDC standard,” he says, nodding at the tiny little rainbow alien heads that cover it.

“It’s called  _fashionable_ lab safety.” He winks one of his magnified eyes and turns back to his sample, and Hermann hides his smile behind his hand.

* * *

Newton’s singing in the shower is far too charming. His freckles are far too distracting. His jokes aren’t funny, but Hermann laughs anyway, and his tattoos are gaudy, but Hermann can’t tear his eyes away from them, and he’s messy, and handsome, and he kisses  _magnificently_.

(“I knew you liked me!” Newton crows, and Hermann shuts him up with another little kiss.)


	51. fake dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I would like 50 more fake!married or fake!dating pls your recent one saved my life

Hermann doesn’t typically lie–doesn’t even make an exception for white lies–but he, perhaps,  _may_  have once indicated to a few of his colleagues at the university that he had a boyfriend waiting for him at home in order to get himself out of a department outing to a bar. They were  _very_ understandable. And it worked so well the first time, Hermann thought it’d be foolish if he didn’t reuse the excuse to get out of a department barbecue a few months later (their date night, so sorry, they’ve been planning it for weeks.) And if Hermann reused the imaginary boyfriend as an excuse once more to cut out early from a mandatory department meeting a bit after  _that_ (he’s sick, you see, Hermann simply  _must_ rush home and tend to him immediately), and a few meetings after that for various reasons (anniversary dinner, more vague illnesses, etc etc etc) no one is the wiser.

Unfortunately, Hermann underestimated his colleagues’ interest in his personal life. They slip him an invitation for another department party with insistence that he bring his elusive boyfriend this time (since Hermann just seems so  _fond_ of him, and some of them are starting to think that he doesn’t even exist, wouldn’t that be funny?) and they won’t take no for an answer. Which is why Hermann has been forced to–debase himself like this. Find a last-minute date on  _Craigslist_ , of all places, or the entire ruse will collapse and everyone will know Hermann has been lying the entire time. Desperation leads one down truly strange avenues.

Hermann finds someone in no time, fortunately–some thirtysomething in the area has made himself an ad boasting to be  _the pretend boyfriend of your dreams_  for only twenty dollars and free reign of whatever food is at the function. The ad seems old, but when Hermann sends the man a quick email explaining his situation (which he signs with his first and last name, perhaps a bit unwisely) he gets a response within the hour.  _I’m Newt_ , the reply says,  _and I’ll do it._

* * *

His date can’t drive and Hermann supposes it’ll look better if they show up together, so Hermann offers to pick him up a bit before the party. They could walk, he supposes, but it’s autumn and chilly out and Hermann never likes putting unnecessary strain on his leg.

Hermann’s surprised to find he and Newt don’t live too far from each other. Only a block or two, really. Practically neighbors. He wonders if Newt works in the area.

Newt is short, and he wears thick glasses and his hair is–quite frankly–a mess. He’s handsome, to be even more frank, in a non-conventional way Hermann secretly finds appealing. Cute, might one say. He looks nice in the little corduroy trousers-and-blazer combination he’s thrown on. (Hermann’s suddenly seized by panic–perhaps he’s  _too_ attractive to believably be Hermann’s boyfriend.) “So,  _Hermann_ ,” Newt says with a cheeky little grin once he hops in Hermann’s car and slams the door, “what’s our plan, dude? What’s our story?”

They talked a bit online, Hermann supposes, so it’s not as if they’re complete strangers, but he expected Newt to at least– _greet_  him. A little hello. “Story?” Hermann says, as he pulls out of Newt’s street. “You’re my boyfriend. Isn’t that enough?”

Newt is like a little ball of energy; he can’t seem to stop fidgeting in his seat, or poking around in the glove compartments. He’s put his seatbelt on, at least. “Yeah, but am I a good boyfriend? Do we argue a lot? How long have we been together? We really gotta sell this thing.”

“It’s for one night,” Hermann says. “Two hours maximum. It’s just enough that–”

“I’m a great boyfriend, I think,” Newt interrupts, fiddling with the air vents. “We’re  _pretty_ serious. We met–where? Online dating? Were we pen pals? Did I spill coffee on you in Starbucks and I bought you a drink to make up for it and we fell madly in love? Oh, we’re here. I forgot how close–nevermind.”

Newt talks Hermann’s ear off on the walk inside to the university, too, and on the elevator ride up to the physics department. He takes Hermann’s free hand in the hallway outside, and Hermann bristles at the touch. “What–” he says, and Newt winks at him.

“We gotta sell it,” Newt explains under his breath, and squeezes Hermann’s hand companionably, “ _honey_.”

Hermann’s colleagues greet them both warmly, though they seem surprised when they see Newt. It’s not for the reason Hermann was expecting. “This is my boyfriend,” Hermann explains to another professor, “Newt–” and the woman nods furiously and smiles.

“Of course,” she says, and turns to Newt. “Dr. Geiszler! Dr. Gottlieb never said  _you_ were his mysterious boyfriend.”

Dr. Geiszler?  Hermann hadn’t known he was a doctor. He hadn’t known Newt’s last name, either. “Guilty as charged,” Newt says, and grins back. “Hermann’s big on privacy, you know.”

“He could’ve mentioned his boyfriend  _works_ here, at least,” she says.

“Yes,” Hermann agrees, tightening his hold on Newt’s hand. “I should’ve. Newt, if you don’t mind, I’d like a private word.”

Newt waves goodbye cheerily as Hermann manhandles him out into the hallway and against a wall, resisting the urge to cage Newt in with his cane. Newt’s grin has turned a little sheepish. “You didn’t tell me you were a  _doctor_!” Hermann hisses. “Or that you  _work here_!”

“Yeah, well,  _maybe_ ,” Newt says, “if you didn’t lurk in your office all day you would’ve seen me around campus and known that. The biology department is right next door, Hermann.”

“You tricked me,” Hermann says.

“No I didn’t!”

“You led me to believe you had no idea who I was when you  _knew_ we were co-workers!” Hermann exclaims. “I suppose you thought it’d be a great joke.”

“Okay, look, I’m  _sorry_ ,” Newt says. “But I didn’t mean any of this as a joke! I just wanted–” He sighs. “I’m a big fan of your research, okay?”

Hermann blinks in surprise. “What?”

The door to the hall swings open, and Newt jumps a bit. “You guys want some wine?” the same professor asks, seemingly oblivious to Newt and Hermann’s little argument.

“That’d be great!” Newt says, still far too cheery, and then drags Hermann back inside.

Newt–Hermann is loathe to admit–is an excellent date, and very good at selling the boyfriend story. He’s attentive. He gets Hermann drinks and food whenever Hermann wants. He can hold an engaging conversation. He’s–falsely, Hermann supposes, since it’s all for show–affectionate, spends the night calling Hermann  _honey_  and  _babe_ and keeping his arm around his waist and flirting with him any chance he gets (complimenting Hermann’s appearance, laughing loudly at his jokes, teasing him). He makes up a long, elaborate story as to how they met (the coffee shop story he came up with in the car, but with a twist: Newt accidentally ran into Hermann on the quad Hermann’s first week here, helped him back up, bought him a coffee to apologize, they hit it off, then Newt bought him dinner, the rest is history). And really–Newt  _is_  quite nice to look at. Not all of Hermann’s lingering glances are for show. (He learns about Newt, too–Newt’s a very skilled biologist, a veritable child prodigy, a professor at Hermann’s university for several years.)

They eventually duck out after two hours, as Hermann originally planned, and Hermann waits until they’re in the car before he holds out a $20 bill to Newt. “For tonight,” he says. “As promised.” He purposely doesn’t bring up their conversation from the hallway–he’s not sure what Newt’s goal for tonight was, but he doesn’t care, frankly.

Newt goes pink in the face. He doesn’t take the bill. “Okay,” Newt says, “okay, so, see, I see you on campus all the time and I’ve always wanted to ask you out and then you needed a fake boyfriend and you just  _emailed_ me and it was, like, the perfect opportunity, because I forgot all about that dumb ad, I made it  _years_ ago as a joke–”

Hermann lowers his hand. “You’ve wanted to–?”

“For a  _while_ ,” Newt says. He fidgets again. “Did you–uh–did you have a nice time?”

“I did,” Hermann says, surprising himself when he realizes he’s telling the truth. Hermann watches Newt thoughtfully for a minute, then sticks the $20 in Newt’s top pocket. “Take it,” he says, when Newt tries to protest. “You’ll need it to buy me dinner.”

“Buy you–oh!” Newt smiles goofily, and Hermann’s own lips twitch up. “Cool! Okay!”


	52. hermann cleans up NICE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keigan-of-sweden asked:  
> Prompt: Newt's reaction to seeing Hermann dressed up to the nines for the first time.

It’s technically not their first date–their first date was spent eating mess hall takeout and watching Star Trek in Newt’s bunk, which was then followed by a little fooling around in Newt’s bunk, and that sort of set the model for their dates that followed–but it  _is_  their first date outside the Shatterdome. Better yet, it’s their first date where they don’t have the constant threat of the Apocalypse looming over their heads. Newt finds it to be a vast improvement on the moodof it all.

More specifically speaking, a vast improvement on  _Hermann’s_ mood. Newt knows Hermann well enough by this point to understand the guy wasn’t grumpy all the time, just a little  _stressed_ , a little tightly-wound, but now that they’ve got nothing to do with themselves, Hermann’s gotten–well,  _different_. He’s more patient with Newt. More  _affectionate_ with Newt. He’s handsy, too, always kissing him and hugging him and slipping an arm around Newt’s waist in public. It’s so much that Newt thinks it’s gotta be a bit of drift jumbling: Hermann wasn’t stingy with affection before by any means, but between the two of them, Newt was  _way_  more likely to try to cop a feel in a coffee shop.

And now Hermann wants to take Newt out on a  _date._ Their first official, real, not-just-an-excuse-to-get-Hermann-alone-in-his-room date.

“I’d just like to take you somewhere  _nice_ ,” Hermann explains when he proposes the date in their tiny kitchen. (It should worry Newt, maybe, that they jumped straight from sharing a lab to sharing an apartment without even fully testing the waters of a steady romantic relationship, but everything just feels so natural with Hermann.) “We certainly have the time.” True: yesterday Hermann blew through half a book of Sudoku puzzles and Newt sewed five new patches onto his jean jacket, and that was before noon. “And the money.” Also true: they made a  _lucrative_ amount of money off television and pop science journalism interviews that’s gone towards nothing but the apartment and a single weekend trip to Point Pleasant so Newt could hunt for Mothman. 

“For real?” Newt says. For a second he’s worried Hermann’s  _bored_ of their usual dates–Newt’s bunk replaced with their tiny living room, mess hall takeout replaced with Chinese takeout or frozen pizzas, Star Trek and fooling around largely the same–and by extension bored of the little life they’ve carved out together and by extension of  _that_ bored of  _Newt_ , but Hermann smiles, reaches out and takes Newt’s hand gently in his own, and Newt reigns his thoughts back in. 

“It’s always been a secret ambition of mine to spoil you, Newton,” Hermann says, and squeezes Newt’s hand. 

“Right,” Newt says, pink in the face and smiling like an idiot. “Cool. Sweet.”

 

Newt hasn’t technically unpacked from the Shatterdome yet, even though it’s been close to six months since they moved out. He still has a lot of his stuff in boxes in the hall closet and the spare room they didn’t actually end up needing, so he spends the better part of the hours leading up to their date digging around for his suit. Has Newt had all week to do this? Perhaps. It’s a wrinkled mess when he finds it–he’s worn it exactly once in his life, for some fancy gala thing Hermann faked a fever to get out of going to (Newt saw it all in the drift, the bastard)–but it still fits him fine. It’s maybe a little tighter in the waist than it used to be. The lift on wartime rationing (and Hermann’s surprisingly skilled hand at baking) has been kind to Newt.

Newt gives up on tying his bow tie after attempt number three and decides to just swallow his pride and ask Hermann to do it for him. “Hey, babe,” he calls out the bathroom door, and he hears Hermann make a noise of acknowledgment from the bedroom, “can you help me with this? I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

He’s distracted by his own reflection, which is probably why he doesn’t notice what Hermann’s wearing until Hermann’s leaning his cane against the sink and reaching around to fiddle with Newt’s tie himself. “You look terriblyhandsome, dear,” Hermann says, locking eyes with Newt in the mirror, and Newt leans back  _just_ a bit so Hermann can press his lips to the shell of his ear. 

“It’s a  _little_ small,” Newt says, and Hermann runs one of his hands down Newt’s chest, pausing to linger over each of his buttons.

“Mm. I don’t mind in the slightest,” Hermann says, and that’s when Newt notices Hermann’s nicely-slicked hair, his neat navy dress shirt, his grey wool suit that actually  _fits_ him. Hermann looks his age. Hermann looks  _stylish_. Hermann looks–

“Holy shit,” Newt says. “Holy shit, Hermann, you look  _hot_.”

Hermann’s fingers still on the bow tie. “Implying,” he says, tone teasing, “that the rest of the time–”

“No, no, come on, you know I always think you’re hot,” Newt says, and Hermann’s smile returns, and he kisses behind Newt’s ear again as he finishes with the tie. Newt turns in his arms and takes most of Hermann’s weight, stretches up on the tips of his fancy dress shoes to kiss Hermann properly. “I’ve never seen you like  _this_  before, man!” he continues, because it’s true, he’s never seen Hermann in something that wasn’t mildly baggy or too-short or five decades out of fashion. Hermann’s hands find their way under Newt’s blazer, squeezing at Newt’s soft middle. “You look like–a sexy movie star or something.”

Hermann starts untucking Newt’s dress shirt. “A sexy movie star? Really?”

Newt nods, licks his lips, stretches back up for another quick little kiss which turns into a very  _long_  kiss when Newt tries to pull away but Hermann chases it. Newt  _loves_ newly relaxed, affectionate, and handsy Hermann. He loved stressed and tightly-wound Hermann, too. He just loves  _Hermann_ , you know? “Babe,” Newt sighs, happily, when Hermann’s hands start wandering further and further down, mostly because he knows how much Hermann likes it when he calls him dumb little endearments (almost as much as he likes when Newt compliments him), “honey, didn’t you make reservations?”

“I did,” Hermann says, and nips at Newt’s lower lip.

Newt goes weak at the knees. To be totally honest, Newt doesn’t give a shit if they end up blowing off dinner so Newt can mess up Hermann’s sexy movie star suit to his heart’s content instead, but he knows Hermann really wanted to take him out. “We’re gonna miss–”

“Most likely,” Hermann says. He adds, with another pointed little nip at Newt’s mouth, “That cut is  _very_ nice on you.”

“Leftovers, then,” Newt says, and pushes Hermann against the wall to get a start on properly wrecking that suit.


	53. sea explorer au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> You probably have dozens of prompts already, but this scene won’t leave me alone, and I know you’d capture it so well: Newmann Explorer AU where they’re both hired scientists (astrologist and marine biologist, maybe?) on a ship. A storm hits one night and Hermann falls overboard. Without even thinking Newt dives into the angry sea and saves Hermann. Later, when they’re wrapped in blankets and shivering, Hermann asks why Newt he acted so recklessly. Newt stresses it wasn’t a big deal. It is.

Newton is always frantic–always bouncing about the ship, always scrawling things in notebooks, always crashing through the door of their shared quarters in the dead of night when he hasn’t yet slept and yelling things at Hermann–but tonight he is abuzz with a different kind of energy. He piles blankets on Hermann, shouts for more to be brought, for hot water and soup and lanterns, runs about until Mr. Choi forces him to the ground at Hermann’s side and throws a blanket over his shoulders as well. Newton’s shivering just as violently as Hermann, shirt and breeches soaked, hair plastered to his head, and his thick spectacles are nowhere in sight. Lost to the sea, Hermann imagines. Along with Hermann’s cane. 

Hermann says nothing as they’re fussed over, nothing as Newton’s bravery is commended (but neither does Newton), not even when Captain Pentecost himself ducks below deck to check up on them and make sure they’re still breathing. When it becomes clear they won’t be perishing of pneumonia any time soon–“A misconception,” Newton mutters under his breath, but only Hermann hears–they’re left alone in their quarters to warm up, with a tin cup of coffee each.

It is only then that Hermann clears his throat. “You saved my life,” he says. 

Hermann does not recall much of what happened. He remembers the storm. He remembers–foolishly–remaining above deck to help with navigation through the gale in any way he could. He remembers Newton following him up, clinging to his arm, shouting at him to get below, and he remembers shrugging Newton off. He remembers the wave. He remembers the sea. He remembers Newton’s hands grabbing at him, his arms around him, and he remembers laying on his back on the wet deck and seeing Newton’s face–pale, and contorted with horror–above him.

Newton waves him off. “Anyone would have done the same,” he says. “I just acted first.” His lips are regaining color, pink washing away the blue, as are the stark white of his cheeks. He sniffles, pathetic and endearing.

“You acted  _impulsively,_ ” Hermann says. “You put your own life at risk, Newton–” 

“You nearly drowned!” Newton exclaims, and Hermann’s startled into silence at the look on his face–terrible, wide-eyed, hopeless. “What would I have done  _without you_ , if…?”

He does not finish the hypothetical, but the near-confession shocks Hermann nonetheless. Hermann didn’t know Newton…cared for him, in that regard. In any regard. They share quarters, of course, and meals, but not as friends, merely forced together as the two scientific minds of the vessel. Still: Hermann knows, deep within himself, if their situations were reversed, he would’ve dove into the sea for Newton as swiftly as Newton had for him, because Newton is… Well, he doesn’t know what Newton is to him. 

Hermann shrugs off the layers of blankets to free his arm. “Newton,” he murmurs, and touches Newton’s hand. Newton cheeks grow rosier, but he does not draw away. He looks strange without his spectacles. More youthful, more innocent. He also squints a great deal more. He has a spare pair, Hermann knows, resting with Hermann’s spare cane in their work room on the ship; they’ll be fine. “Thank you.”

He’s not surprised when Newton kisses him, tasting of the sea, and Hermann strokes at his wet hair and melts against him.


	54. thinking other wants to break up w them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Would you be willing to write something about Hermann and Newt each thinking the other wants to break up with them?

Newt always figured that, if they were going to break up, Hermann would be the one to do the dumping. It just made logical sense. Newt gets on people’s nerves easily–Hermann included, from their days sharing a lab to their current days sharing an apartment–and he knows he can be…exhausting…to deal with sometimes. And all of his previous relationships (even if they don’t exceed being counted on one hand, and none were ever  _anything_  like what he has with Hermann now) have ended in him being dumped. And that’s…well, it’s not  _fine_ , because Newt _really digs_ Hermann, you know, like, really, truly is head-over-heels in love with him, but he thinks that if Hermann were to break up with him he’d…not  _get over it_ , but also not entirely not see it coming. 

The problem is that lately Newt’s been seeing it coming. 

Hermann’s been a little more secretive. He’s been running mysterious errands late at night, and sending mysterious emails, and coming to bed long after Newt’s already fallen asleep. He doesn’t kiss Newt as much. He doesn’t respond as  _enthusiastically_  when Newt tries to grope him in the shower or in the kitchen or whatever. He’s been distant, basically. And it’s the worst possible goddamn time Newt could be having these sudden earth-shattering doubts about how much Hermann loves him, because Newt’d been planning on proposing.

He bought the ring and everything. A pretty little silver band that he thinks would look nice on one of Hermann’s fingers. He had a whole scenario planned out, too: he’d cook Hermann dinner, they’d have a bit of wine, they’d put on the Cooking Channel while they made out on the sofa and then Newt would pull the ring box from out under a cushion and ask Hermann to be his husband and Hermann would swoon and kiss him passionately.

Now, Newt sits on the edge of their bed and turns that ring box over and over in his hands and feels very, very sad. Was it something he did that was the final breaking point? Something he said? He forgot to load the dishwasher when Hermann asked him to last month and he never remembers to clean up the bathroom sink when he shaves and they argue–

The doorknob turns. Newt shoves the ring box in his pocket and swipes at his eyes.

“Newton?” Hermann says, peering in cautiously.

“Yeah?”

Hermann pushes the door open all the way. “Are you…okay?”

Newt’s lip trembles. He says nothing. Hermann shuts the bedroom door very carefully behind him and then eases himself down on the bed next to Newt. He wraps his arm around Newt’s shoulders. “Newton,” he repeats, voice soft. “My dear–”

“Can we talk, dude?” Newt says, and he feels Hermann go rigid next to him. 

“…Talk?” Hermann says.

“Talk,” Newt says. Hermann looks about as sad as Newt feels, and he slowly removes his arm from Newt. God, here it comes, any second now. “I’m sorry,” Newt says in a rush, eyes welling up again. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. Please don’t break up with me, Hermann, I’ll be a better boyfriend, I love you so much and–”

“What?” Hermann cuts in. “What on earth are you talking about? Why would I break up with you?”

Newt wipes his eyes again. “Because I’m the worst?” he offers. “I don’t know, man, you never touch me anymore and you’ve been all…sneaky lately–”

To his surprise, Hermann laughs. “Newton, I only–” He shakes his head. He looks relieved, for some reason. “I thought  _you_ wanted to break up with  _me._ ”

“Uh,  _no_ ,” Newt says, and–to hell with it–he fumbles in his pockets for the ring box. “Not at all?” Now or never. He shoves the box at Hermann. Hermann opens it. His eyes widen a fraction.

“Newton,” he says, “is this–are you–?” Newt nods. Hermann sets it down on the bedspread, then reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a nearly identical box. He’s got a big, goofy smile stretching across his face. “I was only being– _sneaky_  because of this,” he says, and of course it’s a ring, of course it’s the exact same ring Newt bought for Hermann. (Lasting drift side effects, maybe? How…romantic.) “I was planning a whole evening out for us. Which is ruined, now, I imagine.”

“Oh,” Newt says, and he smiles all big and goofy too. “Huh. So. You wanna get married, then?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, and he knocks their foreheads together. “Of course. Of course I do.”


	55. vampire hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If you’re willing to take a fic request, I think a vampire Hermann one would be great! Maybe involving “Dude, I’m a biologist! You HAVE to let me look, for science!”

Newt is about eighty percent sure that Hermann is a vampire.

And he’s aware, you know, that even suggesting the concept is completely outrageous, because objectively, Hermann is human. Hermann looks human. Hermann talks like a human. All physical signs point towards Hermann being human. Except, you know, for the fact that Hermann also exhibits all the classic, Hollywood-folklore-blend-brand signs of being a vampire.

One: Hermann doesn’t sleep. He always stays in the lab when Newt leaves for the night–sometimes as late as two in the morning–and is somehow always already there in the lab when Newt shows up the next day. Two: Hermann doesn’t eat. He refuses to go to the mess hall with Newt for breakfast or lunch or dinner, and on the rare occasions Newt manages to drag him out, he just…sits there, and watches Newt with mild disgust on his face. Three, and four, and five, and so on, Hermann is  _pale_ (like, sickly, deathbed pale), Hermann is cagey about his past (Newt googled him once when they were still pen pals and got  _nothing_ , aside from his research), Hermann has absolutely zero photos of himself anywhere online (Newt googled that, too), Hermann is always freezing (Newt brushed his hand once and nearly jumped), Hermann doesn’t feel change in temperature (the same three layers, always, every single day, even that time Newt fucked around with the thermostat as a test and amped up the heat in the lab), Hermann always wears his collars buttoned all the way up (enough to cover bite marks on his neck, maybe?).

Newt wouldn’t even be mad if Hermann confessed to being a vampire, and he wouldn’t panic, or have a crisis about the cycle of life, or run at Hermann swinging wooden stakes and a Bible or whatever. It’d be pretty cool, to be fucking honest, from both a biologist’s standpoint  _and_ a horror aficionado’s standpoint. (How would he  _work_? How long has he been alive? What does he eat? People?) He might–in this hypothetical scenario–get a little offended that Hermann didn’t tell him sooner, but he can understand why Hermann might want to keep that particular fact under wraps.

“Why,” Hermann says, startling Newt, because he hadn’t realized he’d been that obvious, “have you been staring at my neck for an hour?”

“Have I?” Newt says, tearing his eyes away to look back at his samples instead. He doesn’t do a very good job of feigning disinterest, because he can still feel Hermann’s eyes on him.

“You have.” From the corner of his eye, Newt sees Hermann reach up and rub at his neck, a little self-consciously. “Is there something–?”

“Are you a vampire?” Newt blurts out.

“ _What_?” Hermann says.

“You can tell me,” Newt says. “I promise I won’t tell anyone else.”

Hermann’s fingers are trembling around his chalk. He shakes his head. “No, I’m not–are you mad, Newton?”

“Nothing,” Newt says. “It’s nothing. Forget it. I was kidding.”

Hermann looks uneasy, but he doesn’t press it. Newt fucks around with his sample for a few more minutes before he finally cracks and sets his scalpel down again. “Okay, but  _are_  you?” he says.

“I don’t–” Hermann stammers, then trails off, licks his lips. He hasn’t written anything new on his chalkboard since Newt posed the question, Newt notices. “What are you–?”

“Alright. Okay.” Newt pulls his gloves off and tosses them at the hazardous waste bin. “You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you’re all–” Newt waves his hands at Hermann, at his sweater vest several decades too late to be considered remotely fashionable and glasses on a chain, “–old-fashioned, you’re cold as  _shit_ –”

“I sleep,” Hermann says. “I  _eat_. I–frankly, you’re making no sense, Newton, and this entire conversation is ridiculous.”

“If you are, and you’re lying,” Newt says, “I’m gonna be pissed. I mean, I’m a biologist, dude! If you are, you have to let me check you out! For science!” He colors, realizing exactly what he said a second too late, but Hermann seems too taken aback to pick up on any unintentional innuendo.

Newt lets it drop, after that. And then he goes and drifts with a kaiju brain a week later, which leads to them _both_ drifting with a kaiju brain, which leads to–

“You lying bastard,” Newt says the second they’re alone together that night, which happens to be when he’s kissing the daylights out of Hermann against his bedroom wall while Hermann kind of–flutters his hands about and makes little encouraging sounds. “I fucking knew it.” Newt saw everything in the drift.  _Everything._ Including the fact that he was  _right._

“It’s not the type of thing–” Hermann inhales sharply, and his fingers dig into Newt’s arm when Newt kisses his neck, “–t-type of thing one really discloses, is it?”

Newt pulls back and glares, mildly offended. “I said I wouldn’t care!”

“Yes, you  _said_ ,” Hermann says. “I didn’t exactly want to put that to the test. I’m sure you understand.”

“Can I see your fangs?” Hermann winces. “What, is that, like, an offensive question for vampires?”

“Must you–”

“Call you a vampire? Yes, because it’s cool. And kinda sexy, to be honest.” Hermann opens his mouth; his fangs slide into view. Newt whistles loudly. “Nice!” he says. He raises his finger to poke at one, and Hermann jerks back so sharply he nearly brings them both toppling over. “Okay, no touching them, that’s fine.”

They make out for a bit more. He doesn’t feel Hermann’s fangs poking his bottom lip–which is a bit of a downer–but Hermann’s touching him more, at least. Not his nervous fluttering like before. “Are you immortal?” Newt says.

It’s Hermann’s turn to pull away and blink. “Ah. I suppose I am, yes.”

“Can you turn other people into vampires?” Newt says. Newt doesn’t particularly want to be a vampire, but–you know, Hermann’s gotta be kind of lonely, living for all these years–

“Newton. I am not turning you,” Hermann says, very sternly.

Newt drapes himself over Hermann. “Consider it, at least,” he says. “We could be vampires  _together_. Immortal lab partners. That’s kinda cool, right? Maybe even a little…romantic.” He flutters his eyelashes.

“Once we manage to sustain a romantic relationship longer than,” Hermann glances at the clock on Newt’s bedside table, “forty-two minutes, I will consider it. As for now, it’s out of the question.” He does look distinctly pleased, though–Newt suspects that, if he could, he’d be blushing–so Newt just grins and kisses him again. Immortal vampire lab partners. That’ll be  _cool._


	56. newt/owen (newmann adjacent!) (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> maria! i love your writing so much it keep my deeply romantic heart pumping! i was wondering if you'd ever consider writing something smutty between newt and owen harper ??? im weak for those horny bisexuals ily ily ily
> 
> so this one isn't TECHNICALLY strictly newmann but.....u know

Dr. Harper, or Owen, as he insists on Newt calling him, is kind of an asshole. Newt’s an asshole, too, he recognizes, of course, but Owen’s just…a bit too cynical for Newt’s liking. He’s clean, though, which Newt supposes Hermann likes, and truthfully very good at his job, which Newt likes because it makes  _his_  job easier. He’s also a  _wild_  flirt. Newt’s never seen anything like it before. Owen flirts with j-techs they pass in the halls. He flirts with the rangers. He flirts with Tendo, when Tendo stops by the lab to–not very subtly–catch a glimpse of the mysterious new xenobiologist added to the team. He flirts with Hermann (and–okay, it’s crude, and Newt’s aware that he’s just being a horny bastard, but isn’t  _that_  a fantasy and a half) who usually just sniffs in disapproval or outright ignores him. **  
**

Most importantly: he flirts with Newt.

He stands a little too close when they dissect samples. He touches Newt’s hand a lot, too, and flashes him smiles, and comments on Newt’s stature and his glasses and his freckles (he calls him cute, once, which almost made Newt spill acid all over the floor), drops innuendo like it’s nothing, and maybe,  _maybe_  Newt flirts back, because Owen’s hot, you know, he’s like a sexy badboy Hermann and Newt is very, very into that.

Owen flirts with Newt, and Newt flirts with Owen, but that’s all it is–flirting–until, finally, at the end of a very long Friday when they’ve got their heads together over a sample and Owen is eyeing him up, leaning close like usual, work forgotten. “So,” Owen says, and nods deliberately at Hermann’s side of the lab, “what’s the deal with you and the grumpy bloke, then? You two…?” He mimes something crude and, unmistakably, meant to be a blowjob, and Newt feels his face heat up and he glances over at Hermann. Hermann didn’t notice, thankfully, too absorbed in wiping down his chalkboard. Or maybe he did, and he’s just pretending he didn’t. (Hermann’s been acting pretty weird lately.)

“ _No_ ,” Newt hisses, while Owen looks smug. “No, Hermann’s just–we’re just research partners. That’s all.”

“Good,” Owen says, satisfied, and he’s leering, settling a hand at the small of Newt’s back that makes Newt’s skin prickle pleasantly with goosebumps. “Dinner tonight, then?”

Newt’s not this easily flustered, you know–usually, he’s the one doing the flustering, always being a little too loud-mouthed and forward, but Owen is so  _astoundingly_  obvious about his interest in Newt that Newt…doesn’t entirely know how to react.  “Dinner?” Newt echoes, feeling dumb. They’ve gotten dinner together before, in the mess hall, but he doesn’t think that’s what Owen exactly means.

“Or we could just cut right to the sex,” Owen says with a shrug, and Newt hears Hermann make a very undignified noise across the room. “Your call.”

“Oh,” Newt says, pink in the face. Owen’s fingers are warm through his shirt, and Newt can smell his aftershave. He likes it.

 

They skip dinner.

It’s kinda weird, boning someone who’s basically Hermann but also just so  _isn’t_  Hermann at the same time. Owen looks like a moderately more stylish Hermann with a moderately more stylish haircut, and Hermann sounds exponentially more  _posh_ , but Owen’s got the same big hands as Hermann and they feel excellent stroking down Newt’s body, and he’s oddly strong, like Hermann (and it’s hot, how Owen kind of pushes him around a bit when he shows Owen to his bedroom, how he tears Newt’s clothing off of him and shoves him onto his bed), and he’s got a big dick, which is excellent, too, and even if Newt can’t compare that to Hermann’s (tragically) he’s having a great time fucking himself on it anyway.

“The tattoos are a bit gauche, aren’t they?” Owen pants, examining the ink winding down Newt’s arms as Newt moans and works his hips up and down and feels his thighs burn. Owen’s chest is pressed to his back, sticky with sweat, breath puffing warm, and his lips trail hot down Newt’s neck. His words vibrate against Newt’s skin. “Subject matter, I mean.” He bites down on the skin and sucks, and Newt jerks helplessly and clenches his thighs.

“What?” Newt gasps. “Uh, I guess?” Owen still refuses to fuck up, contents himself with stroking Newt’s arms and occasionally tweaking a nipple, and Newt whines in frustration. “Dude, come on.” Owen laughs, a bit snidely, and finally, blessedly, fucks up. The back of Newt’s head hits his shoulder. “Yeah,” Newt says, rolling his hips down, “ _yeah_!”

“Can’t believe Gottlieb isn’t screwing you every chance he gets,” Owen says breathlessly, fucking into Newt with a hard, punishing pace, thumbing over both of Newt’s nipples, and Newt writhes on top of him. “You’re a sensitive little thing.”

“Touch my dick,” Newt begs, eyes screwed shut, “oh, shit, please—“

Owen trails from Newt’s nipple to his cock and squeezes, mouthing more kisses up his neck. “Tight, too,” he says, and swears, bites down again.

“ _Harder_ ,” Newt moans. They’ve been sitting on Newt’s bed, Owen’s back to the headboard while Newt rides him, but now Owen sits up and forces Newt onto his stomach, kneeling over him.

“Like this?” he full-on  _growls_ , gripping Newt’s hip and pulling his ass up to fuck him harder, faster, hand flying over Newt’s cock, bedsprings squeaking wildly. It’s heaven. It’s all Newt wants. He whines something out, knees trembling and fingers scrabbling at the sheets, drool pooling beneath his open mouth, and Owen laughs again. He bends over fully, chest pressed to Newt’s back once more, and stills momentarily. Newt huffs in frustration. “Gottlieb’s next door, yeah?” he says, low in Newt’s ear.

“ _Yeah_ , Hermann’s next door,” Newt says, breathless and impatient. “Fuck me, man, come on, I don’t give a shit if he hears.” (His cock gives a little twitch at the idea, actually–having an audience. An audience that consists of Hermann.)

Owen tangles his fingers in Newt’s hair and yanks his head back when he thrusts back in, deep enough to graze the little bundle of nerves inside him, and Newt squeezes down around him and whimpers. “Newt,” Owen groans, “oh, hell–” He lets go of Newt’s cock to knead at his ass, instead, pinching and pushing at the skin, and his thumb brushes where his cock is buried in Newt at the exact moment he grinds down against his prostate deliberately.

Stars spark up behind Newt’s eyelids, and he shouts,  _loud_. “Oh–!”

There’s the distinct sound of Hermann’s cane rapping on the wall connecting their bedrooms. Owen grinds down again, nails dragging across Newt’s ass with the sharpest little twinge of pain. “Oh,” Newt repeats shrilly, “oh, Owen, oh, fuck–!”

He fucks into Newt once more, twice more, springs creaking, and Newt wraps a shaking hand around his dick and spills over the sheets on thrust number three. “Keep going,” he pants out, clenching tight around Owen, and Owen presses Newt’s face to the mattress–Newt’s cheek in his drool puddle–and keeps fucking him until Newt’s nearly delirious with it and shouting nonsense. (Hermann’s angry tapping stopped somewhere after Newt’s fourth plea to be fucked so hard he can feel it for a week.) When Owen finally comes in him with a long, loud grunt of Newt’s name, Newt’s already started to harden again.

He doesn’t push for more, though. At least not until he’s curled up on Owen’s chest, afterwards, while Owen idly strokes down his back. Owen’s handsy here, too, which Newt can appreciate. He wriggles his way up and kisses him, open-mouthed and lazy, while Owen squeezes a handful of his ass. “Want another go?” Newt says against his mouth.

Owen steals another lazy kiss. “Ten minutes,” he says, but his fingers have started to creep to Newt’s stretched and come-slicked hole, after a few more minutes of kissing Newt feels him slide one in without resistance. Newt purrs contentedly and pushes back on his hand. “Reckon Gottlieb would join if we asked?” Owen says, slipping in another finger. “Might be fun.”

Newt’s cock is nearly fully hard again while Owen fingers him as lazily as he’d kissed him; he loves feeling used like this. “Nah,” he says, a bit belated, and he wonders if Owen’s fixation on Hermann has to do with narcissism (they do look  _very_  alike), or just Newt’s clear massive thing for his lab partner, or maybe a little bit of both, “Hermann doesn’t–” But it’s lost in a moan when Owen rubs his thumb over the outside of his rim. “Can we–uh–can we stop talking about Hermann?”

Owen nods. He looks flushed. He’s hard again, too. He pulls his hand from Newt and strokes his cock a few times, and Newt doesn’t need even the slightest encouragement to sit himself down on it once more.


	57. self-conscious hermann and smitten newt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If you're willing to take fic requests, I can't get enough of self-conscious Hermann and smitten Newt. Hermann thinks his face horribly gaunt; Newt thinks it's angular and elegant. Hermann thinks his legs are too long; Newt thinks Hermann has supermodel legs. Hermann thinks his ears stick out too much; Newt can't get over how precious Hermann looks with his sticking-out ears. Hermann thinks he's too pale; Newt thinks he has a beautiful alabaster complexion. (And so on)

Hermann is aware that Newton–though Hermann may think him stunningly handsome–isn’t exactly conventionally attractive. He’s short, for one thing (though Hermann loves how Newton’s the perfect height for Hermann to rest his chin upon his shoulder and hug him from behind). He’s not exactly  _toned_ , perhaps a bit too soft around the middle for others’ liking (but Hermann loves stroking over Newton’s love handles when they spend lazy mornings in bed together, loves being held in his warm arms, loves his cheeks and his weak chin). He’s got thick glasses that he squints without and scars and burns from lab accidents on his forearms and fingertips calloused from years of playing the guitar, and he chews his nails down to stubs, and he can’t seem to grow facial hair right, and–well, Hermann loves every bit of him, not in spite of, but  _because_  of.

He only wishes he could believe Newton’s insistence that he loves Hermann for Hermann’s obvious flaws just the same.

It’s another one of their lazy Saturday mornings in bed–no buses to catch, no errands to run, no lectures to give–and Newton, freshly awake, is pressed to his bare chest and squinting up at him with a sleepy smile. Dreary, grey autumn sunlight streams in through the window; Hermann thinks it may rain. All the better reason to stay in bed longer. “Hi,” Newton says, and then plants a little kiss over one of Hermann’s pecs.

Hermann’s lip twitches in amusement, and he runs the fingers of his left hand up the base of Newton’s neck and through his hair. “Hello,” he says. Newton kisses his collarbone, then Hermann’s throat, then Hermann’s bottom lip, and then Newton makes a pleased little sigh when Hermann pushes his right hand under Newton’s baggy t-shirt to stroke over his bit of pudge. They kiss chastely, at first, do nothing but explore each other with light touches, and then Newton’s hands start to wander further, deliberately south. “Already?” Hermann teases as Newton’s teeth graze his jaw, though he does squeeze lightly at Newton’s side. “You’ve only just woken.”

“I can’t help it, man,” Newton says, massaging Hermann’s thigh gently. He nips at a little patch of skin under Hermann’s ear. “You’re a stud.”

Hermann says nothing.

“A big stud,” Newton sighs happily, “my handsome, sexy stud of a husband–”

Hermann fidgets, a little uncomfortably. He never knows what to say when Newton compliments him like this. Which is  _ridiculous._ They’re  _married._ Hermann should be able to take a little bit of flattery from his husband. Newton always notices, of course–Newton is very perceptive–and he usually chooses to say nothing, let Hermann’s insecurities remain private and unexamined out of respect. Today, to Hermann’s surprise, Newton has has chosen otherwise. “I know you don’t believe me,” Newton says, still massaging his thigh, “but I do mean it. You  _are_  sexy.”

“Newton–”

Newton silences him with a kiss. “Everything about you,” he says, soft against his lips, “is so  _sexy_. And hot. And–” He steals another kiss, almost as if he can’t help it. “I love your bony elbows,” he says, “and your big ears, and your little eye wrinkles, and your cute butt–”

“Yesterday,” Hermann stammers, brain foggy (Newton has begun running his fingers up and down Hermann’s too-skinny chest, over his ribs, and it feels  _lovely_ , just the way Hermann loves to be touched, and Newton knows it), “oh–yesterday, you called it  _flat_.” Newton had, in fact; he sidled up behind Hermann by the bathroom sink as Hermann brushed his teeth the previous morning, nosed at Hermann’s neck, groped his ass and mumbled something about it being flat and sexy.

Newton’s grin is mischievous. “Your butt  _is_  flat,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not cute. It’s perfect. I love it.”

Hermann feels pleasantly warm. He finds himself growing fond of this–Newton so brazenly listing everything he finds attractive about Hermann. It’s making him feel…desirable, knowing what Newton sees in him, physically. Hermann drags one of Newton’s hands to his lips (though it’s a shame to part with his caresses) and kisses his fingers, lingering over his wedding ring. Newton’s nail polish is chipping badly. “And my  _terribly_ skinny legs?” Hermann says, letting Newton’s hand drop slowly.

Newton strokes Hermann’s knee with his other hand. “Also sexy,” he says, his face noticeably pinker. “You’ve got hot supermodel legs, Hermann. People would kill for your hot supermodel legs.”

“Mm.” Newton has very clever fingers, and it’s very easy to become distracted by them. “My mouth,” Hermann begins (another–perhaps silly–insecurity, but he knows it’s a bit thin, a bit wide), and Newton interrupts him easily.

“Also sexy,” Newton says. “Also,  _awesome_  for kissing. I would kiss you all day if I could.”

“What else?” Hermann says before he can help himself, and then blushes harder at how desperate he sounds. “Ah, I mean–”

“Your eyelashes,” Newton says, and he straddles Hermann’s lap fully, settles his arms on either side of Hermann’s head to box him in. He looks lovely like this: boxers loose, tattoos peeking out from under his shirt collar and sleeves, hair messy and tousled from sleep. He’s still squinting without his glasses, but it just endears him to Hermann further. “They’re pretty. So are your eyes. And your cheekbones.”

“My cheekbones?” Hermann laughs, and Newton smiles.

“No, listen, good bone structure is  _very_ important,” Newton says. He leans over, pressing his warmth to Hermann, and Hermann catches a whiff of his shampoo. “You know, it’s my professional opinion, as a biologist–”

“Oh, your  _professional opinion_ ,” Hermann echoes, sarcastic, and wraps his arms around his husband to hold him close. Newton nuzzles his throat and hums happily.

“It’s my professional opinion that you’re a very hot specimen, Hermann,” Newton continues. “Maybe the  _hottest_.”

It’s hardly the most romantic compliment, and not even the most romantic one Newton’s given him, but Hermann’s heart thuds wildly in his chest anyway. He loves Newton dearly. So much it aches him, sometimes. “Darling,” Hermann murmurs, and Newton kisses him sweetly.


	58. hermann's raging lingerie kink! (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If you could find it in your generous Newmann heart to write Hermann with a ladies lingerie kink and Newt happily indulging said kink I would love you forever and ever.

“Negotiation,” Newton says, and then plants a little kiss to the inside of Hermann’s thigh, “is important, babe.”

Hermann’s eyes flutter shut. He strokes his fingers through Newton’s hair and stops to cradle the back of his head. “Mm?” And then, remembering himself and opening his eyes once more, “Please don’t call me babe.”

Newton nuzzles at the spot he’d just kissed, and Hermann shivers at the drag of stubble across his skin. He feels Newton’s lip curling up into a smile. Newton is being a dreadful, terrible tease today–for thirty minutes he’s laid there, between Hermann’s legs, doing nothing but kiss and nip at him and occasionally rub at Hermann’s hips soothingly. “I want to know what you like,” Newton says, voice low, and he runs the tip of his index finger across the crease of skin between Hermann’s thigh and pelvis. Hermann shivers. “I want you know what turns you on.”

They’re new to this–an actual relationship with each other, as well as sex with each other that’s not hurried little fumbles up against a chalkboard or in the cramped confines of one of their bunks–and they’re still learning what makes the other tic. Newton makes Hermann tic. Hermann tells him as much. “You turn me on,” Hermann says. Newton snorts.

“No,” he says, “I mean sexy stuff.” He licks the crease he’d just stroked, and Hermann moans shakily; he’s so hard it’s nearly painful. “I like being tied up,” he offers.

“I’m  _well_  aware,” Hermann says, remembering past rendezvouses fondly. Newton nips at him again.

“I like dumb roleplay, sometimes,” Newton continues. “I like blowing you.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Hermann says, voice visibly strained, and Newton laughs. He finally, blessedly, kisses the head of Hermann’s cock, and Hermann tightens his fingers in Newton’s hair. Newton’s breath puffs out warm.

“Tell me what you like, Hermann,” Newton says, and drags his tongue across the slit. 

“I haven’t,” Hermann stammers, and Newton sucks in the very tip to his lovely warm mouth, “oh, my dear–I haven’t enough–experience. To know.” Newton hallows his cheeks as he massages Hermann’s hip, then pulls off with a little pop.

“Come on,” Newton urges, his lips slick.

What does Hermann like? Hermann likes Newton: touching Newton, holding Newton, kissing Newton, fucking Newton. Hermann likes– “It’s rather embarrassing,” Hermann confesses, cheeks going pink, and Newton nuzzles at the base of him.

“You’re talking to  _me_ , babe,” Newton says, words vibrating against his skin, and Hermann supposes he does have a point–they have been inside each other’s heads, after all. 

“Lingerie,” Hermann confesses, and Newton freezes. Hermann’s heart races; has he misstepped? Misinterpreted? He has not asked any men he’s been with in the past to dress for him in such a way (or even asked them to allow Hermann in dress as such), but he’s always been enamored with the idea. It’s the juxtaposition, he supposes–muscles and  _broadness_  draped in something so elegant. And the way it feels, of course. He’s  _long_ entertained the idea of Newton dressing for Hermann in such a way (Newton, with lace pulled over his soft thighs and soft stomach, his stocky shoulders and sturdy legs, presenting himself for Hermann to stroke at and kiss as he pleases) but always feared Newton’s reaction to such a request. Newton’s pupils have widened, Hermann comes to realize, and his eyes are dark. Perhaps wrongfully feared.

“You or me?” Newton says.

“You,” Hermann says, and then colors some more and says, “me. Either of us,” and then he says nothing, because Newton keens softly and takes him fully into his mouth in one go.

 

Hermann did not expect Newton to forget about his confession, but he also did not expect Newton to act on it quite so quickly. Against Hermann’s better judgment, he’s allowed Newton to drag him to the shopping mall (a waste of a perfectly good Saturday) and into one of those underwear shops with shopfronts featuring models that make Hermann avert his eyes in secondhand embarrassment. He would’ve much preferred to do this sort of thing online, but Newton was insistent. He claimed it would be a fun “couples outing”.

But they’re getting  _stares_.

Newton holds up a light pink, and quite sheer, negligee to his chest and smiles. Its edges are trimmed with pink fluff, and there’s a large bow fashioned to center. “How about this?” he says, and waggles his eyebrows. “Can you imagine ripping this off me and–”

Hermann turns bright red and shushes him before he can continue. “We’re in public!” He snatches the negligee away and hangs it back up. “Besides,” he continues, “that’s far too tacky for you.”

“Too  _tacky_?” Newton laughs. He picks it up from the rack once more. “Listen,” he says, “tacky can be  _fun_. Look–” he leans in and lowers his voice, “picture me in this, and in  _nothing_ else.”

Hermann swallows. The negligee is clearly meant to be worn with some expensive lace underwear the store also sells, so the end falls just at the waist. It’d fall at Newtons waist, too, meaning he’d get a full view of Newton’s ass, Newton’s cock– “Ah. Alright,” he says, and swallows heavily.

Newton picks some more things out for himself–a bright red teddy, a few bralettes with matching lace panties, another negligee more tacky than the last–but then he insists Hermann pick some out for him, too, so–not wanting to disappoint Newton–he does. He selects a few garter belts and stockings, and a little sheer skirt to go over one of the belts, a corset he thinks would look nice on Newton, and–after some goading from Newton, who saw how affected he’d been by it–a skimpy maid uniform. “Hope these can fit my junk,” Newton says to Hermann under his breath as they wait in line together, examining a pair of white lace panties he’d chosen, and Hermann coughs to hide his laugh. They’d gotten the largest size they could find in everything–Newton may be short, but he is still somewhat stocky–though they do not run very high at this store.

They get a few more stares when they reach the counter, as the cashier seems convinced they must be shopping for their wives and makes several comments indicating as such, before Newton finally says, gleefully, “Actually, they’re for me!” and Hermann has to hide his laugh again.

Hermann allows Newton to buy him a soft pretzel at the food court afterwards, though he does  _not_ allow Newton to poke around in their bag of nice new things with butter and salt on his hands like Newton seems intent on doing. They’ve found a little bench, which is nice, as Hermann had been beginning to feel tell-tale twinges of pain in his hip from all the walking around they’d done that day. “It was a bit expensive, was it not?” he frets, examining the receipt from the underwear store. It was more than a bit expensive. Newton snatches the receipt away and shoves it in his pocket.

“We can afford it,” he says, dismissively. “What else are we gonna spend it on?”

“Rent, for one–” Hermann begins, and Newton makes a face and kisses him with salty lips. Hermann smiles despite himself.

“C’mon,” Newton says, crumpling the wrappers for both his and Hermann’s pretzels and tossing them into a nearby trashcan. He hops to his feet and then holds out a hand to help Hermann to his own. “Let’s get home so I can blow your mind.”

 

Newton strips Hermann down to just his undershirt and briefs hardly twenty minutes after they step though their front door and arranges him carefully on their bed, pillow propped beneath his leg. “All comfortable?” Newton murmurs as he kneels in front of him, and starts pressing little kisses across his face.

“Mm,” Hermann hums, his hands going immediately to Newton’s denim-clad ass, and Newton presses one last little kiss to his lower lip before wriggling out of Hermann’s grasp.

“Not yet, dude,” he says, when Hermann makes an embarrassingly pathetic sound at his sudden lack of a lapful of Newton. “I’ve gotta model everything for you first!” He does lean back in and let Hermann kiss him again, however, as well as continue to grope at his ass. Hermann bites at Newton’s jaw the way he knows Newton loves, and Newton sags against him. “Maybe just model one,” he gasps, “and uh–do the rest later this week.”

“Ingenious as always, dear,” Hermann says, and squeezes Newton’s ass one last time.

Newton, now mildly flustered, pops into the master bathroom with the merchandise bag. Hermann hears him kick off his boots, hears his jeans hit the floor, and he wonders as to which one Newton’s chosen to wear. The absurd maid costume? The fluffy negligee? Hermann hopes for one of the pairs of stockings.

When Newton pushes the door open and pokes his head out  _quite_ some time later, it’s not nearly with as much fanfare as Hermann had been expecting. He looks sheepish. “Okay,” he says, “so they  _are_ kind of small.” He steps out fully, and Hermann gets a long look at him. He’s in the garter belt and pale blue stockings Hermann picked out, as well as one of the pairs of lace panties and a little bralette. The bralette is the only thing that seems to fit: Newton’s soft thighs are being squeezed by the garter belt and his stomach spills out from atop the little skirt, his cock is poking out from the top of the panties, and there are already the beginnings of runs in the stockings. He turns in a circle, just as sheepish, before finally settling his hands on his hips; the lace barely covers his ass, too. “Well?” he says. Hermann blinks. Newton spins again. “Good? I don’t look too–I don’t know, too chubby?”

“Come here,” Hermann says, aware his mouth is hanging open, and Newton goes pink in the face before he quickly scrambles onto the bed. 

“Good?” Newton repeats, just beyond Hermann’s reach, but Hermann barely hears him–he’s too overwhelmed by how  _gorgeous_ Newton looks. The panties and bralette are the same pale blue as the stockings, skirt, and garter belt, and his tattoos are even more vivid by contrast. Hermann wants nothing more than to wreck him thoroughly.

“Newton,” he says, and Newton inches closer. Close enough for Hermann to run his hand down Newton’s chest, over the bralette, down to skim the waistband of the little skirt and his love handles. Newton shivers. “ _Newton_.”

Their room is cold, on account of their temperamental central heating, so Newton’s nipples are little peaks under the bralette. Newton’s own fingers drift over one of them now, and he pinches at it through the lace. “It feels weird,” he gasps, “and really sexy, I–” Hermann pushes Newton’s hand aside and takes over pinching at it himself, and they both moan at the same time. “ _Oh_ , Hermann–” Hermann starts pinching at the other, too, and Newton whimpers and shuts his eyes. His cock is stirring to life between his legs, straining against the confines of the panties, and when Hermann leans in and sucks on one of Newton’s nipples through the lace Newton’s whole body stiffens. “ _Shit_!” Newton hisses.

Hermann alternates between biting and flicking his tongue over Newton’s nipple, then runs one of his hands up Newtons leg and clutches at his thigh, digging into the nylon and Newton’s soft, warm skin. “You look beautiful,” he breathes into Newton’s chest, “oh, Newton–” Newton reaches down and palms Hermann through the fabric of his briefs, and he laughs, a little dazedly, when he realizes how aroused Hermann is.

“It  _really_ does it for you, huh?” Newton says, and Hermann nods and plants a kiss to his throat.

“Lovely thing,” he sighs, and pulls Newton into his lap to have his way with him properly, “you beautiful, lovely–”

“I, uh,” Newton stammers, as Hermann starts kneading his thigh and kissing his throat all over, “I–I got ready in the bathroom, if you want to just–”

Hermann reaches behind Newton’s thigh and cups his ass instead. Hermann has always loved Newton’s ass, even before he had free reign of it–it’s round, and perfect, and Newton loves when he squeezes it almost as much as Hermann loves squeezing it. The soft lace covering it now only adds to the experience. “Ready?” he echoes, and makes work on sucking a little hickey into Newton’s jaw. He slides his fingers below the waist of the panties to tease Newton some more, and that’s when he realizes what Newton means–he’s already slicked himself up. He hadn’t even seen Newton snag the lube from the bureau. “Sneaky,” Hermann says with a grin, and then he slips his index finger into Newton, pleased to find how loose he is. “You couldn’t wait for me?”

Newton’s eyes flutter shut. “Uh. No.”

Hermann slips in another two fingers easily, and Newton whines and rocks back against him. He wonders if Newton would keep the underwear on while Hermann fucks him, if Hermann asked nicely. Just shove it aside and pull Newton down onto his cock. Hermann inhales sharply. “Newton,” he says, and draws his fingers from Newton and wipes lube off on the bedspread, “may I–?”

Newton smiles at him, flushed and panting though he may be, then pushes Hermann back gently against their pillows. Hermann goes all too willingly. Newton plants one stocking’d knee on either side of Hermann’s waist and grinds his ass down against Hermann’s briefs, and he rubs his cock through the lace with the hand he’s not using to brace himself on the bed. “I can see why you like this,” he groans, and Hermann digs his fingers into Newton’s thighs once more. “Can I leave the underwear on when–uh–when you–” Newton’s shut his eyes, lost in sensation.

“Oh, please,” Hermann near-moans. Newton picks himself up long enough to pull Hermann’s cock free from his briefs, pushes the crotch of the panties aside like Hermann had so vividly pictured, and sinks down onto Hermann. Newton’s natural tightness combined with the way the lace panties strain so terribly around Hermann’s cock make Hermann nearly shout, and–overwhelmed–he claws at Newton’s thighs so hard he rips a new run in the left stocking.

“Hey!” Newton gasps, but he bottoms out and whatever he was going to say–a reminder of how expensive those stockings were, maybe–is lost in a filthy moan. “ _Wow_ , Hermann–!”

Hermann does not expect either of them will be lasting long, and Newton does not seem to expect it either, as he gets to work quickly; he rides Hermann with a practiced efficiency, picking himself up and down and landing harder on Hermann’s cock each time, but Hermann feels his leg muscles strain through  _nylon_ , this time, and he feels lace brush his cock, and the little blue skirt is fluttering wildly with Newton’s movements. Newton rubs himself through the panties one last time before he whimpers and comes in them, staining the blue and clenching even  _harder_ around Hermann, and Hermann screws his eyes shut and thrusts up and comes in Newton.

Newton is very indignant about the stockings, afterwards. In addition to the run from before, Hermann somehow tore a large hole in them while he was fucking Newton. The runs are hardly noticeable–this hole is not. “You owe me new stockings,” Newton declares, but he’s snuggled up very tightly to Hermann and looks very pleased so Hermann knows he’s not truly upset.

“All the stockings you want,” Hermann agrees happily, squeezing his arms around Newton.


	59. more regency/highwayman au!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Could we please get more of the 1900’s, magpie newt thief, because that was a blessing.

“You know, my love,” Hermann says, watching Newton stumble from his windowsill to the hardwood floor of Hermann’s bedchamber, “I do possess a front door.”

Newton is well aware, of course, just as he is aware Hermann is the sole inhabitant of the Gottlieb estate tonight and he need only have knocked at that front door if he wished to see Hermann. He has grown skilled at shimmying up the vines curling under Hermann’s window over the past months, though, and Hermann suspects he may have simply wished to show off. An impressive feat of strength sure to make Hermann swoon where he stands, perhaps fall into Newton’s  _strong_  arms and beg to be debauched. It certainly would not be without precedent.

But tonight Newton rises from the ground heavily, far, far too heavily, and his hand flies to his right side and he winces. He says nothing in response–no clever, sharp-witted retort–and Hermann knows instantly something is amiss. He flings back the bedcovers and hoists himself to his feet with his cane. “Newton,” he says, and rushes to where Newton sways, “what’s happened?”

“Don’t  _fret_ ,” Newton says, freckles stark against his oddly pale cheeks, “promise me–”

“What’s happened?” Hermann repeats, and when Newton pulls his hand from his side crimson stains his fingertips, blooms like a rose, steadily, across the white linen of his shirt. Hermann’s stomach twists; ice settles in his chest. Newton’s been injured. “Newton, what have you done?”

“It wasn’t me,” Newton says, and he winces once more when Hermann carefully lifts the hem of his shirt to peer at the wound. It’s shallow, thank God, nothing life-threatening. “A man had a pistol,” Newton continues, “and shot at me.” He forces a laugh. “Can you believe it?”

“Oh, darling–”

“It simply grazed me,” Newton insists. “The wound is shallow, Hermann. He had  _terrible_  aim.” He cracks a grin, then sways a little more; it’s shallow, yes, but he’s still lost blood. Hermann will have to fetch something to clean it with, some bandages, perhaps a fresh shirt for Newton. Tea, perhaps. Bandages  _first_.

“To bed, immediately,” Hermann says, firm as he can manage, hoping his voice does not tremble and betray the full extent of his anxiety at seeing Newton in such a state. Newton had not closed the window when he tumbled in and the cold chill of February has begun to creep through Hermann’s chamber, making Newton, and Hermann, shiver.

“I’ll bleed on your bedclothes,” Newton protests weakly, but allows Hermann to drag him as well as he can manage to his bed. Hermann waits until Newton has gingerly lowered himself to the mattress and slipped beneath the thick quilt to shut and latch his window, then adds another log to the fire at the hearth. When he turns his attention on Newton once more, Newton is no longer shivering. His eyelids have flickered shut.

Bandages. The Gottliebs do not have much in the way of medical supplies, but Hermann knows he has at least those stashed in his chamber somewhere. This is not the first time Newton has come to Hermann injured and needing attention, though typically it’s through no fault but his own: falling from some height and skinning his knee (and tearing his breeches), burning his hand in some ill-advised experiment. Newton has never been shot at before.

Hermann finds the bandages hidden in a basket of yarn and patches Newton up quickly, washing the wound with water from his bedside basin and winding the bandages around his abdomen. The gauze pricks with more crimson, but it does not seep through or bloom as brightly as before, so Hermann breathes a sigh of relief. Newton will be fine. He dresses Newton carefully in one of his spare clean shirts, tugs his boots and breeches off and piles them on the floor.

Once Hermann’s finished fussing over him, Newton touches the bedclothes–likewise red with his blood–lightly. “I’ve ruined them,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Hermann carefully settles himself in next to Newton, draws him close and presses his lips to Newton’s temple. “It’s quite alright,” he murmurs. “I’ll tell the maid it’s my fault. Nasty papercut, perhaps.” Newton laughs again, and Hermann nuzzles against his soft skin, the long curls of his hair. He does not like thinking about what his love gets up to when they are apart; he does not like thinking about Newton’s dangerous profession, of all the risks entailed. Of how easily Hermann could lose him. “You’re reckless, Newton,” Hermann continues, just as softly. “And careless. Often I fear–”

“Don’t,” Newton says, voice muffled by Hermann’s nightshirt.

“I have money,” Hermann says. “I can give it to you. You don’t have to risk your life for–”

“ _Please_ , Hermann,” Newton says. “Not now.”

Hermann concedes. He will not fret, not now, not with what little time they have together, so he simply holds Newton close and strokes his soft hair.


	60. touch starved hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Prompt: Hermann is very touch-starved, nd Newt starts to notice. He won't let it slide.

They’re into nearly a month of co-habitation when Newt finally brings it up. They’re together on the sofa, Newt shoveling take-out pizza down his throat and Hermann flipping through TV channels, and suddenly Hermann reaches out and curls his pinkie finger delicately over Newt’s. Newt swallows his mouthful of pizza. Hermann’s eyes are fixed straight ahead. Newt knows this signal, of course–Hermann wants Newt to take his hand, maybe kiss it (Hermann likes that a lot) or rub his thumb in little circles over Hermann’s knuckles. “If you want to hold hands with me, dude,” Newt says, with a grin, “you could always just  _hold my hand.”_

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hermann says, but he looks pleased when Newt threads their fingers together anyway. Later, when the lights have dimmed and his head migrates to Newt’s shoulder, he clears his throat until Newt takes the hint and loops his arm around Hermann instead. Newt squeezes Hermann’s cotton-clad bicep, and Hermann hums happily and nuzzles the side of Newt’s neck. “Thank you, Newton.”

Newt laughs. “For what?”

Hermann starts to creep an arm over the front of Newt’s stomach. He doesn’t answer, but Newt kind of gets it. Hermann’s a bit of a weird guy, you know, a little awkward and fussy and wound tight with anxiety and at least twelve layers of emotional repression. He doesn’t strike Newt as the type who got hugged a lot as a kid. Or as an adult. Certainly not by Newt, until very recently, which is a fucking shame, because Hermann’s secretly the sweetest, most affectionate old romantic on the planet when he shows it.

It’s always Newt who has to take the first leap, though, for sweet-soft-Hermann to come out: offering his hand to Hermann while Hermann looks at it like he’s never touched another human being before, Hermann scooting inch by inch over to him with tiny little side glances and nervous smiles before Newt finally pulls him into a hug, their first kiss (Hermann clasping Newt to his chest tight and gazing at Newt’s lips and blushing furiously until Newt goes for it), how it took Hermann a week into sharing a bed and not touching him to finally,  _finally_  take Newt’s arm and drape it across him (and how he’s been obsessed with being the little spoon since).

“Hermann,” he says, rubbing Hermann’s shoulderblade soothingly. “You don’t have to waitfor me to initiate stuff if you want to touch me or kiss me or whatever, you know.” He moves his free hand over the one Hermann’s pressed to his stomach. Hermann lifts his head to look Newt in the eyes; his cheeks are pink, and he looks a bit sleepy. Basically, fucking adorable. Newt smiles and kisses the tip of his nose, and he watches Hermann’s eyes crinkle and go soft as he smiles back at him. “If you want to, and you think  _I_  want to, which is always a high fucking chance, just go for it.”

“If you’re sure,” Hermann says. He leans in and gives Newt a quick little peck. “I’d like to request the same,” he continues. “You touching me, that is. I haven’t–” his blush spreads, “well, had much experience, with this, and–”

Newt knows. He saw in the drift. He thinks Hermann is  _ridiculous_ to have to ask, though, since that implies Newt wouldn’t want to be all over Hermann–his skinny little legs Newt loves to stroke, his cute mouth Newt  _super_  loves to kiss, his dumb hair that always feels fuzzy beneath Newt’s fingertips when he strokes at it–24/7. “Uh, of  _course_ ,” Newt says. “Just name it and I’ll do it.”

“This is more than exceptional for now, my dear,” Hermann says, and he settles back into Newt’s arms.


	61. head over heels newt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> fjengieg would u be open to writing something with newt being a head over heals puppy and hermann just teasing him? i’ve been having real gushy feelings lately- “hopeless romantic guys named newton “squad is a go

There’s been a noticeable change in Newton’s demeanor since Hermann finally grabbed him by his stupid tie and kissed him last week. He doesn’t provoke Hermann into as many unnecessary arguments. He’s making a decided effort to keep his mess over his side of the yellow line. He runs errands for Hermann, too–he prepares him trays of food, drops off forms for Hermann, even on one occasion (to Hermann’s surprise) wiped down his chalkboard for him when Hermann complained of his leg aching more than usual. It’s a change for the better, frankly, though Hermann can’t quite figure out what Newton means by it. A thank you for the kiss? An apology for his past behavior?

And then, one morning, as Hermann works at his board, Newton brings him a cup of tea and looks up at him with big, expectant eyes. Hermann takes it. “Thank you,” he says, and, absentmindedly, pecks Newton’s lips.

Newton does not immediately get back to work, like Hermann had been expecting. Hermann copies out another line of code before he finally looks back at him. Newton is pink in the face and smiling, lovely and shy, and he leans in and brushes his lips over Hermann’s cheek before he scurries back to his dissection table.

Oh, of course.

The next time Newton does him a favor–he organizes Hermann’s chalk for him, and then sharpens his pencils–Hermann makes sure to reward him with a pat on the side of his cheek and another, far less distracted kiss. “You’re being a wonderful help,” Hermann tells him, and Newton beams, pleased at the result. Hermann would not call Newton  _sweet_ –he’s far too obnoxious for that–but he can be terribly endearing when he wants to be.

Newton continues running Hermann little errands and presenting him with small gifts, and Hermann continues rewarding him with kisses and other little forms of affection. He hugs Newton from behind and nuzzles into the soft skin of his neck one evening when Newton cleans up his work station early. He kisses Newton’s cheek when Newton sneaks him extra cake from the mess hall. He cuddles and kisses Newton on the sofa when the lab dips into the uncomfortable side of climate controlled and Newton offers up his spare sweatshirt so Hermann can stay warm. It’s the most relaxed their work atmosphere has ever been. Hermann wonders if he should feel guilty, but it was Newton, after all, who decided this was the best way to go about getting Hermann’s attention. Hermann would’ve been just as happy kissing Newton whenever he pleased, the dear, ridiculous man. 

Hermann catches Newton staring at him in the lab one day a few weeks after their initial kiss. Newton’s hands are deep in the chunk of kaiju organ he’s working on, headlamp switched on, but his eyes are fixed solely on Hermann as Hermann works at his desk. He’s done this a lot lately–just stare at Hermann with a terribly soft look in his eyes. It’s flattering, really, that Hermann can prove to be that much of a distraction.

Newton looks away quickly when he sees that  _Hermann_  sees, and Hermann can’t help but smile. He sets down his pen. “Newton,” he says, “darling, come here a moment, won’t you?”

Newton drops his scalpel. “Oh,” he says, and starts fumbling with his disposable gloves. “Yeah, okay, uh–” he tosses them both into the trash bin and is at Hermann’s side in a flash, twisting his bracelets around his wrist. (Newton’s clean and kaiju-free enough, Hermann supposes, for this.)

Hermann inches his chair out and pats the desk. “Pop up here?”

Newton nods. When he’s properly arranged–his legs on either side of Hermann’s, the perfect height for kissing–Hermann cups his cheek. “You’ve forgotten to switch this off,” Hermann murmurs, sliding his hand up through Newton’s hair to fiddle at the straps of Newton’s headlamp.

Newton fumbles to click off the light. “You called me darling,” he says, a bit dumbly.

“Mm,” Hermann agrees, and then kisses Newton. When he parts with a little nip, Newton chases after him for more. Hermann doesn’t give it to him–not yet. “Cleaning up after me and running all about the Shatterdome and distracting yourself from your work for nothing more than a little kiss,” he teases, cupping Newton’s stubbly cheek once more. “Such terrible work ethic, Newton. It hardly seems worth it.”

Newton flushes. “It’s worth it,” he says. “It’s totally worth it.” Hermann kisses him again, swiping his tongue across Newton’s lower lip, and Newton makes a noise like a contented little cat. “I love you,” Newton sighs into his mouth, and Hermann can’t help but  _shower_  him with kisses for that.


	62. time traveler hermann au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hermann is a time traveler sent to save Newt (and the world) from himself

Out of all the information Newt’s just been handed–that his stuffy lab partner came here from the future, that he’s only here from the future because Newt apparently  _royally_ screws up at some point and maybe-possibly almost causes the End of Days, that time travel exists, that he only knows these things about Hermann because Hermann  _drifted_ with him–Newt, predictably, decides to focus on what one may deem the least important issue of the bunch. “So,” he says. “I guess that explains the sweatervests.”

Hermann bristles. “That’s allyou’ve got to say?”

“I gotta start somewhere, dude,” Newt says, and shrugs. He inspects the handkerchief he’s pressed to his nose to see if he’s stopped bleeding. Nope. Taking on that much of a neural load, shared or otherwise, was a bitch. Hermann’s nose has stopped bleeding, but only  _just_ , and one lapel of his button-up is stained crimson. His eye is as red as Newt’s.

Hermann is twisting his hands in his lap. He doesn’t look up at Newt when he continues speaking. “Perhaps we were a few decades off in terms of fashion,” he says. “You must imagine, Newton, five hundred years from now, the past tends to blur a  _bit_ together.”

“Five hundred years,” Newt says, stomach suddenly twisting unpleasantly. “Wow. Yikes. Okay.” He dabs absently at his nose with the handkerchief and laughs, dazedly. “Five  _hundred_ years.” Newt is  _way_ dead by Hermann’s time. Everyone Newt knows is way dead by Hermann’s time.

“You’re smearing blood across–” Hermann reaches out and takes the handkerchief from him, the pinches it over Newt’s nose delicately. Newt blinks dumbly at him, then takes over; their fingers brush, and Hermann pulls his hand away quickly.

“So,” Newt says a bit nasally. “How do I fuck up? May as well cut to the chase.” He laughs again, but it’s short and nervous and he doesn’t think he’s fooling Hermann.

“The Precursors seize control of your mind,” Hermann says. “They force you to drift over and over, and then they useyou. You very nearly end the world. I wasn’t–well.” He looks a bit sheepish. “I wasn’t, ah,  _meant_ to drift with you, per se, Newton. Gain your trust, yes–”

(Newt snorts, and regrets it, because it hurts, but come on, gain Newt’s trust? Hermann spent most of the last decade shouting at him. Not that it didn’t work, but Newt has to question his methods.)

“–enough to talk you out of accepting a certain job a year or so from now, but–” Hermann cheeks go a little pink. “I suppose I hadn’t accounted for other variables.”

Newt lowers the handkerchief and narrows his eyes at Hermann. “Other variables?”

“I’ve grown rather fond of you, unfortunately,” Hermann says. He works his jaw furiously. “ _Very_ fond, actually.”

A week ago, this would be the most shocking information you could ever hand Newt. Now, it’s nothing. Doesn’t mean that Newt isn’t–frankly–still ecstatic. He tosses the ruined handkerchief aside and plops down on the sofa next to Hermann. “Hey, good news,” he says. He swings his arm around Hermann’s shoulders, and Hermann stiffens for only a brief moment. “I’m unfortunately fond as fuck for you too. You don’t have to, like, hop in the TARDIS and go back to two-thousand-five-hundred-fucking-whatever yet, do you?”

“It’s not a TARDIS,” Hermann says, blush spreading to his ears as he leans into Newt’s touch. (Newt’s a little disappointed: he can’t really see the point in time travel if they didn’t model it after some sort of pre-existing fictional time machine.) “But  _no_ , I don’t. I’m meant to keep an eye on you for another decade or so. After that, it’s up to–er–my own discretion.”

Newt’s nose has finally stopped bleeding, which means he can angle Hermann into a kiss without fear of staining his button-up anymore; Hermann’s breath hitches in surprise, but his weird, flat (cute) lips are warm and they work eagerly against Newt’s. “I have a proposition,” Newt says against his mouth, as Hermann gazes at him with eyelids half-mast, “of how you can keep a very, very close eye on me.”


	63. adopting a lizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Prompt idea for whenever u have time: Hermann and Newt are walking in a petstore, come across a big, rather 'ugly' looking lizard, and Newt is sold. Hermann finds the lizard a bit creepy to be honest, but they end up buying it anyway.

“I thought you wanted a cat,” Hermann says. He watches with no small amount of trepidation as Newton coddles a unfortunate-looking, and fairly fat, iguana that’s well over half the length of Newton’s arm. Newton pays him no attention–he’s too busy stroking the iguana’s frilled spine and making cooing sounds. Hermann clears his throat and tries again. “Newton. You said you wanted to adopt a  _cat_.”

Newton scratches the iguana’s neck and pouts. “Aw, come on, look how cute he is.” The iguana blinks one beady, yellowish eye at Hermann–one, because it only  _has_ one eye–and flicks its tongue out against Newton’s tattooed forearm. Newton scratches its scaled neck again. “He likes me, Hermann!”

“We don’t have a tank for it,” Hermann says, growing desperate. He doesn’t like the look of the iguana, and besides, they’ve already bought everything they need for the cat they  _planned_ upon getting: a litter box, the proper bowls, even  _cat_   _toys_. He tries to voice this to Newton. “And we’re not buying anything else–”

“Oh, he won’t care,” Newton cuts in cheerfully. “Hey, he can sleep in our bed!” 

“No,” Hermann says. “Absolutely not.”

“He’ll sleep on  _my_  side,” Newton says, still maddeningly cheerful. The iguana flicks its tongue out against Newton’s finger, and Newton nearly giggles and adjusts the creature in his arms so he’s cradling it, as if it were an infant. “The dude at the reptile counter says no one wants him. Can you believe it?”

The iguana blinks its one eye again and flicks its tail against Newton’s chest, and Hermann hums noncommittally. Newton, who’s begun rubbing the iguana’s stomach, looks so terribly sweet and earnest that Hermann can’t find it in himself to argue anymore. Damn Newton, and his infuriating ability to crawl under Hermann’s skin without even trying. (And his pretty face.) “Oh, you can get him,” Hermann sighs. Newton turns his delighted smile on Hermann, and it softens Hermann’s irritation  _somewhat_. 

The iguana does not end up sleeping on their bed, though certainly not from lack of trying: it takes a liking to Hermann’s pillow, and an even greater liking to hissing at Hermann when Hermann tries to reclaim his pillow so he can go to bed. (Newton–whom the creature far prefers–has to intervene and scoop it up in his arms with more cooing and scratching when that happens.) Eventually the thing takes to settling onto a little cleared-out spot on Newton’s bedside table, where Hermann won’t have to feel its piercing stare on him, and Newton can pet it to his heart’s content before he dozes off, each night.

Much to the  _horrendously_ mortifying jealousy of Hermann.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t like you,” Newton says one evening. He’s patting the very pleased-looking iguana on the head and frowning, bemused, at Hermann. Newton’s quite nude, save for a pair of boxers, a sight which would ordinarily be inspiring of all types of lust and racing thoughts in Hermann. And it  _was_ , ten minutes ago, when Hermann got Newton below him on the bed and his lips on Newton’s neck and Newton’s hands under his shirt, all the way up until fiveminutes ago, when the iguana (which Hermann did not know had evidently been perched on Newton’s bedside table) locked its beady little yellow eye on Hermann, began hissing violently, and knocked a glass of water to the floor with his tail, where it proceeded to shatter.

The iguana blinks–smugly–at Hermann again. Hermann scowls at it. It’s the third time this week he’s been  _blocked_ from having intercourse with his husband by this thing. It’s worse than having a child. A child wouldn’t be nearly so aggressive, or try to bite Hermann nearly as much. “I can’t fathom it,” Hermann says.

With one more little pat to the iguana’s stomach, Newton carries it delicately out of the bedroom and pads down the hallway. A few minutes later, he returns empty-handed and shuts and locks the bedroom door behind him. “I gave him a head of lettuce and a sofa cushion,” Newton declares. “That should distract him for all the time we need.” He waggles his eyebrows at that last bit; Hermann  _hmphs_. Newton grins at him and flops stomach-first onto the bed. “Babe,” he says, inching up to rest his chin on Hermann’s thigh and fiddling with the drawstring of Hermann’s pajama bottoms, “are you jealous?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd,” Hermann says, and pushes a strand of hair out of Newton’s face and cups his cheek in hopes of distracting him. Newton nuzzles into the touch, but his grin doesn’t falter.

“You’re totally jealous,” Newton says. “You’re jealous of an iguana, Hermann.”

Hermann feels his face heating up. Embarrassing though it may be, he feels as if he’s  _quite_ justified, thank you very much; that horrendous thing has taken up far too much of Newton’s time. And far too much space in his bed. “Hush,” Hermann says, and Newton laughs and presses a little kiss to his hip.

“Don’t worry,” Newton says, as Hermann cards his fingers through his hair. He shuts his eyes and hums pleasantly. “You’re much hotter.” Hermann flicks the side of his head. “Ow. I mean, I love you.”


	64. hermann in lingerie (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Please for the love of all things good write a hermann in lingerie fic one day. It would be the mlst peaceful death for me.
> 
> (semi-sequel to the newt in lingerie ficlet)

Last time was great, fucking stellar, honestly, Newt’s down to go again whenever, but after they fuck their way through all the nice stuff they picked out for Newt (the stockings, the negligees, even the dainty little skirts) New thinks it’s only fair Hermann get the same treatment. He loves Hermann, you know, and he loves making sure Hermann knows how much he loves him, and that includes indulging Hermann in his every whim. (“Either of us,” Hermann said when Newt asked which of them would be the one to wear the little lingerie sets, and Newt is so totally fucking  _down_.)

He orders Hermann some nice and simple lacy crimson stuff (no shopping malls this time, he wants it to be a surprise), because he thinks Hermann would look pretty in it, and then some deep black stuff, because he thinks Hermann would look  _hot_ in it. Nothing too tacky or silly–no maid costumes, or any skirts, or any of those fluffy negligees with bows that they got for Newt. Newt looks good with tacky. Hermann…

Well. Hermann looks good like this, propped up on their pillows: sleek, sexy, black lace thigh-highs slipping down his long, elegant legs, a simple black corset cinched around his perfect, trim waist, pink blush spreading down his cheeks, his eyelashes fluttering as Newt falls to his knees on the bedspread and takes in the sight of him like a man starving. “Holy fuck, Hermann,” Newt croaks, running one hand up a dainty ankle, a perfect calf. “You’re–uh–you’re really fucking gorgeous, dude.”

Normally, Hermann would bluster at the compliment, duck his head, maybe even deny it, but today, he just smiles lustily at Newt and parts his legs open just a bit wider. Newt picked out panties for him, too, made of the same black lace of the stockings, but Hermann’s forgone them; his cock hangs heavy between his equally elegant thighs, half-hard and flushed red. Newt’s mouth is watering just looking at it. He presses a small kiss to Hermann’s left knee (where Newt knows mottled scar tissue lies beneath the stocking) and drags his eyes up and over his body again. Hermann’s not just gorgeous like this: he’s  _confident_ , which is an even sexier look on Hermann (Newt’s used to seeing it in the lab, when Hermann would be so  _sure_ he right, but this is much better). “Hermann,” he says, over and over, “Hermann, you’re so–”

“Mm?” Hermann’s eyes drift shut, his eyelashes fanning across his cheekbones. Newt presses another kiss to his knee, then the spot where lace and skin meet, and worries the top of the stocking between his teeth.

“You’re just so fucking  _sexy_ ,” Newt says into his skin, and Hermann’s cock twitches at the praise. Newt groans, low in the back of his throat. “Dude. Can I–?”

“Do whatever you’d like,” Hermann says, voice throaty. Newt skims his hand up to rest on Hermann’s hip, then presses his face to his inner thigh and breathes in deeply. Hermann smells like soap and musk and arousal. When Newt nips at the perfect skin, Hermann moans shakily and jerks his hips up a little. “Newton–”

“Yeah,” Newt says, breathless, “I’m on it, _shit_ –” He wraps his hands around the sides of Hermann’s trim, corseted waist, feeling lace and satin, and takes Hermann’s cock into his mouth without any ceremony. Hermann moans again, and buries his fingers in Newt’s hair.

“Ah–Newton–” Newt is too turned on right now to be skilled about his methods or even attempt deepthroating him, so he does his best to make up for it with enthusiasm: he bobs his head frantically, sucks hard in the way he knows Hermann likes, fans his tongue out across the tip and underside of his cockhead and the thick vein intermittently, swallows down precome. And Hermann–Hermann, who’s pink-faced and framed in lace and such a fucking pretty sight and nearly as wound up as Newt–tugs at his hair, moans, babbles nonsense (”Oh, darling, yes, like that, please–”), arches his back from the mattress. He smothers a shout behind his hand when he comes down Newt’s throat, and Newt pulls off with a happy little hum once he’s finished swallowing and pillows his head on Hermann’s thigh.

“You look like a model,” Newt says dazedly, voice a little cracked, spit and jizz on his chin, and horned out of his fucking mind. “Like a sexy lingerie magazine model. I love you so  _much_ , Hermann.”

“Thank you,” Hermann says, chest heaving, and tugs Newt’s hair again. “Come up here now, please.”

“Uh-huh,” Newt says, kicking off his boxers and falling on Hermann with messy kisses across his face.


	65. "I swear I'll never leave you alone again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> How about this for a Newmann prompt? "I swear I'll never leave you alone again."

It’s well past three in the morning when Hermann finally, blessedly makes it back to the Hong Kong Shatterdome; it’s another hour after that before he’s finally cleared by security and wearily unlatching the door to his and Newton’s bedroom. The trip was long, and not of Hermann’s own volition: Anchorage requested the aid of Hong Kong’s science division until their head scientist recovered from an injury sustained during a kaiju attack, and Hermann thought it only his duty to offer his services. Much to Newton’s displeasure. They’d quarreled, of course they had–Newton unwilling to part with Hermann for so long (and worried that Hermann would suffer a fate similar to the previous science officer), Hermann unclear on why Newton couldn’t see  _why_  it was his duty–and when they parted, it was on bad terms. Newton hadn’t even seen him off to the airport.

(Newton called him to apologize, tearfully, a day later. It was the first time Hermann could remember Newton going out of his way to make up after a fight.)

Newton’s curled up in a little ball on top of the bedcovers, fast asleep and snoring, lamp switched on, work clothing rumpled, his glasses dangling half-off his nose. Hermann feels warmth blossom in his breast at the sight of him. Newton texted Hermann around midnight to say that he’d be staying up to greet him when he got home, but he was clearly over-ambitious. 

Hermann eases onto the bed next to Newton, setting his cane against the bedside table and stretching his legs out. Newton does not stir, at least not until Hermann runs his fingers through Newton’s hair; Newton’s breath hitches, and he blinks awake, bleary and disoriented. “Hermann?” he says, and pushes his glasses back into place. A slow, sleepy smile spreads across his face when he can see again. “ _Hermann_ ,” he says again, and Hermann’s own smile widens.

“Hello,” Hermann says. He leans down and brushes his lips over Newton’s forehead, and Newton hums and wraps his arms about Hermann’s waist. “I’m sorry to wake you,” he continues, and Newton removes his glasses and presses his face to Hermann’s stomach.

“Don’t be,” Newton mumbles, nosing against his button-up. “I missed you so  _much_ , dude, holy shit.”

Hermann kisses the top of Newton’s head. “I as well,” he confesses–because, truly, the month apart from Newton was lonely, cold, near unbearable, and already Newton is cheering him with nothing but hugs and his warm, pleasing softness. Hermann toes off his shoes and lays down fully in bed, and Newton latches onto the rest of him immediately, throwing his leg across Hermann’s right knee and pressing his face to the crook of Hermann’s neck instead. Hermann rubs little circles into his back. “I swear,” Hermann murmurs, as Newton snuffles quietly, “I’ll never leave you alone again.“


	66. amnesiac hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I know there's a lot of amnesiac!Newt fic out there but how the fuck would they all deal if Hermann was the one who temporarily lost his memories.

They’re both pretty fucking lucky this is the worst Hermann got out of it. He could’ve sprained something, or broken something, or bled out before Newt got home and–well, as it is, Hermann’s just a bit–

“ _You’re_ Newton?” Hermann says, blinking owlishly at Newt. Half of his head is bandaged up in gauze, like some sort of cartoonish drawing of the invisible man or a mummy, and he’s got another band-aid plastered across his nose over a nasty-looking scrape. His eyes are oddly dilated. Probably because of the sheer amount of  _hardcore_ painkillers he’s hopped up on right now. (Newt insisted on the best their health insurance would cover.) Newt hopes they’re the reason for…whatever this is, too.

“Yeah,” Newt says, fluffing up the pillow behind Hermann and unsure of whether he should laugh or cry. “That’s me, dude.”

“Newton,” Hermann repeats, and catches Newt’s wrist. His face splits into a wide, goofy grin. “Goodness. You’re  _much_ handsomer than I expected.”

“Jeez, Hermann,” Newt mutters, cheeks going hot on instinct, which is fucking ridiculous because they’re  _married_ and Hermann calls him handsome three times a week. But this is not Hermann-his-husband. This is Hermann-his-penpal, because that’s what Hermann’s reverted to right now. Hermann-his-penpal who apparently dug Newt all the way back then, too. Newt wriggles his arm out of Hermann’s grasp so he can finish tucking him in properly. He’s not supposed to let Hermann fall asleep, but hell if he’s not gonna make sure he’s at least comfy.

Hermann’s gazing around their bedroom with that same dazed look on his face. “Is this your flat?” he says. He looks down at himself, then, and seems to realize he’s in not only in pajamas, but in a  _bed_ , too, and he flushes. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, taking in Newt’s likewise fairly disheveled state (which is only on account of Newt having spent the last forty-eight hours wearing the same clothing and at Hermann’s bedside in the hospital before he got the okay to take him home), “have we–?”

“No!” Newt exclaims, now sure he’s bright red. “I mean. Uh. Yes. But not like–what you think.” Hermann looks at him blankly. Newt holds up his left hand, where his wedding ring–identical to Hermann’s–sits, and wiggles his fingers. “We’re kinda married, dude.”

Hermann stares at Newt’s ring in shock, then at his own with equal shock. 

Newt pushes on. “You fell down the stairs,” he says, “and I–” Newt swallows down the panic rising in his throat at the memory and distracts himself by adding another pillow to Hermann’s pile. (Finding Hermann in an unconscious heap at the bottom of the staircase was, easily, the most terrifying moment of Newt’s life. Above being chased through the streets of Hong Kong by a fucking kaiju, even.) “I, uh, found you. But you’re fine! Just a little off,” Newt’s aware he’s babbling, but he wants nothing more than to get that image of Hermann at the stairs out of his head. “The doctor said you should be back to normal soon, though, and if it hurts to give you more of these.” He rattles the little bottle of prescribed painkillers.

Hermann is silent for a little while. “We’re married,” he says.

“And you fell down the stairs,” Newt points out. 

“I  _married_ you,” Hermann says, that wide, goofy smile back on his face. “That’s…unexpected.”

“But not disappointing, right?” Newt says with a forced laugh, suddenly, and ridiculously, very anxious.

Hermann shakes his head, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile. “Not remotely,” he says.

(This would’ve been fucking  _great_ to know back when they first met.) 


	67. wedding night + lingerie (mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> On Newmann's wedding night, they're both secretly wearing pretty bridal lingerie under their suits/tuxes. Newt wears his bridal lingerie because he knows he looks hot in lingerie and he's all about that Only The Best For My Man lifestyle. Hermann wears lingerie because, even though he'll never admit it aloud, he feels so dainty and pretty in lingerie, and also he loves how Newt reacts to him in lingerie (Newt has to kiss and pet and eventually nibble on every inch of lingerie-clad Hermann)

The reception was nice but took far, far too long, and by the final hour Newton was making his impatience known by casting heated glances at Hermann over flutes of champagne and not even bothering trying to keep his hands to himself. Truthfully, Hermann didn’t try much either, but he thinks he can be forgiven for a bit of footsie or under-the-table thigh-gropes on account of both Newton looking simply  _magnificent_ in a suit, and the terribly romantic vows Newton wrote that left Hermann in tears and (embarrassingly) somewhat aroused. Hermann’s surprised they made it out of the limo ride back without anything more than a little heavy petting.

The moment they shut the hotel room behind them, Newton’s on him, frantically shoving Hermann’s suit jacket off his shoulders to the floor, and Hermann’s cane clatters down alongside it when Newton starts leaving kisses just as frantically up Hermann’s neck.

“Newton,” Hermann pants, clinging to the fabric of Newton’s rented tuxedo as his knees threaten to give out. “Newton.  _Darling_. Slow down. We have–” He means to say  _all the time we want_ , but then Newton steals his lips in a kiss that sends electricity singing down to Hermann’s groin and he moans helplessly. Newton’s hands creepy lower, down to the button of Hermann’s trousers, and Hermann only just remembers the surprise he planned for Newton. “ _Wait_ ,” Hermann says, and Newton parts with a sweet little pout, his lips red and well-kissed. “Before we make love–”

Newton’s eyes flicker shut, and he rubs himself against Hermann’s erection with a little groan. “ _Fuck_ , that’s hot.”

Hermann’s lip twitches up. He leans in, close enough to drag his teeth across Newton’s jaw. “Before we  _make love_ ,” he repeats, and Newton whimpers.

“Please get on the bed right fucking now,” Newton says, and doesn’t wait for an answer before manhandling Hermann there and against the luxurious pillows. Newton’s tuxedo jacket and bowtie have vanished somewhere along the way, and he crawls on top of Hermann. “Hermann,” he says, then “oh, honey,” he kisses Hermann’s neck, “we’re  _married_ , babe, can you believe it–”

It takes all of Hermann’s energy to nudge Newton off of him once more. “Wait, my love,” he says, and Newton parts with another little whimper, “wait.”

Newton stares down at him, pupils wide, lips parted as he breathes heavily, arms bracketing either side of Hermann’s head. Hermann strokes a finger across Newton’s cheek and smiles lazily. “I have a surprise for you,” he says. He carefully undoes his bowtie, the top few buttons of his shirt, going lower and lower–and relishing in the way Newton’s eyes track his movements, the way his breathing picks up–until the lacy white corset he’s wearing beneath is finally visible. It hadn’t been too uncomfortable to wear throughout the ceremony. If anything, it, and the matching stockings and garter belt hidden under Hermann’s too-loose slacks made him feel dirty.  _Sexy_. 

Newton loves when Hermann dresses up for him (he loves cooing over Hermann, stroking his fingers and kissing over Hermann, telling Hermann how handsome and beautiful he is), just as Hermann loves when Newton dresses up for Hermann, so Hermann can’t figure out why, right now, Newton’s mouth is hanging open in something that’s more  _genuine_  shock than the  _aroused_  shock Hermann was hoping for. Hermann feels himself blushing unpleasantly, and after another few seconds of utter silence from Newton, he starts to pull his shirt back over himself.

“No!” Newton suddenly exclaims. “I’m not–” He tears his own shirt off over his head without even waiting to unbutton it, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process.

He’s wearing a frilly white corset as well, and Hermann can see a little equally frilly white skirt peeking out below the waistband of his trousers.

Hermann lasts all of three seconds before dissolving into giggles, and Newton’s face splits into a wide grin. “Well,” Newton says, and Hermann pulls him down completely on top of him with a little  _oof_ , “to be fair, we  _did_  share a head.”

“We did,” Hermann agrees, and he pecks Newton’s lips. “You look stunning,” he says with a little sigh, caressing his husband’s cheek, and Newton presses his hand over Hermann’s and kisses the tips of Hermann’s fingers.

“So do you,” Newton says, grin gone bashful.


	68. newt to the rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> (Fic prompt if you want it, or it can just be a Newmann message) One time when Newt and Hermann were out on a date, Newt left for a minute for whatever reason and while he was gone some guy started hitting on Hermann and making him very uncomfortable and poor Hermann had no idea what to do and how to get the strange man to go away, but then Newt returned and made it all better and then took Hermann home because "You'll need somewhere to recover from such a traumatic ordeal ;)" and fluffy ending.

Newton and Hermann are very respectable and very professional scientists, thank you, and  _as such_ would ordinarily behave themselves in establishments like these. Ordinarily. It’s their one-year anniversary, however, which is  _not_  an ordinary occasion, and so Hermann lets up on the respectability and professionalism and indulges himself in some wine and his very lovely and very handsy husband. And Newton does the same, though Hermann supposes he’s never had much professionalism to speak of. They have a neat, snug little booth, illuminated by candlelight and nestled away in the far corner of the restaurant. A nice little bit of privacy, which means they can neck like teenagers to their hearts’ content (at least until a waiter walks by).

“Is he gone?” Newton says, and Hermann peers around the corner of their booth and spots the waiter’s retreating back.

“Yes,” Hermann declares, and Newton latches himself to Hermann’s neck once more. Unfortunately, Newton’s a bit  _too_ enthusiastic; he manages to upend one of their glasses with his elbow and douse himself in red wine, staining his poor white button-up almost instantly. His slacks, at least, are already burgundy and thus fair a  _little_ better.

“Oh,  _fuck_ ,” Newton says, lunging to right the glass before it does anymore damage, and then begins frantically dabbing at his shirt with a cloth napkin. “Shit, dude, this is  _brand new_.”

“I know,” Hermann says, watching him mournfully. “I bought it for you.”

Newton pours nearly his entire glass of ice water on himself in a frantic haze, still rubbing at the stain with the napkin, but it doesn’t seem to remotely help. And now, Hermann reckons, he’s just cold. “Fuck,” Newton swears again, crumpling his napkin and tossing it onto the table. “Ugh. Hang on, I’m gonna deal with this in the bathroom.” He gets unsteadily to his feet–they  _have_ had a bit of wine–and wanders off in the direction of the toilets.

Hermann watches him leave, feeling a bit forlorn. He wipes up a bit of the wine that’d spilled on the tabletop as well for something to do with himself and is just debating checking his email when someone else sidles into the booth across from him.

It’s a man around their age, well-put together and clean-shaven. He’s brought his own bottle of wine with him, evidently, to Hermann’s surprise. “Dr. Gottlieb, isn’t it?” he says, smiling politely.

“…Yes?” Hermann says. It’s a one year anniversary of two things: one year since Newton and Hermann were swept up in a haze of adrenaline and euphoria and raced to the nearest place they could find to legally bind themselves to each other, and one year and a  _day_ since the Breach was closed. Even if they didn’t still sit for interviews and magazine spreads and have their names splashed across the front of every pop science publication and journal, their pictures would’ve been undoubtedly flashed on some news segment the previous day. Hermann is not entirely surprised to be recognized, though he doesn’t think he’s ever been approached  _alone_ before. Usually, they recognize Newton first. His tattoos are rather distinct. “Is there something you need?”

“I’m  _such_ a fan of your work,” the man says. “You’re a genius, you know?”

Hermann narrows his eyes suspiciously. Could be a tabloid journalist. They’re always  _so_ desperate to dig up some hidden dark secrets on Newton and Hermann’s marriage. “Thank you,” he says. 

“I was waiting to get you alone,” the man continues. “You know. Away from,” he waves vaguely in the direction where Newton’s wandered off, and continues disdainfully, “ _him._  Anyway.” His smile twists into something  _decidedly_  more flirtatious. Perhaps not a tabloid journalist, then. “Can I offer you a drink, Dr. Gottlieb?” He nods at his bottle of wine.

“Er,” Hermann says, unsure on how to politely ask this man to leave immediately. “I really don’t–”

“Please,” the man says. “I really insist. It’s the least I can do.” He reaches for Hermann’s wine glass just as Newton stomps back into view, shirt untucked and wrinkled where it isn’t wet (as if he’d tried to dry it on a hand-dryer) and still quite stained. 

“It’s totally ruined,” Newton announces, and then realizes they have company when he tries to flop into his seat. He stares at the man. “Um, hi?”

“I was having a private word with Dr. Gottlieb,” the man says, looking at Newton coolly. 

Newton’s eyebrows jump. “Yeah, okay. You mean Dr.  _Geiszler_ -Gottlieb,” he corrects, folding his arms. “Listen, dude, I know Hermann’s hot stuff–”

“Newton,” Hermann mumbles, ears growing hot, and he fixes his eyes on his fork.

“–but he’s also tragically taken, by  _me_ , so get lost. Or I’ll, like, be forced to defend his honor or something.” Newton is 5′6″, soaking wet, smells of wine and cheap handsoap, and is far too round-faced and  _cute_  to be properly intimidating, but the man gets up and leaves without anything but a single forlorn glance at Hermann. He forgets his bottle of wine.

“Ugh,” Newton says, stealing his seat back and scooting over next to Hermann. “Sorry, babe.” He kisses Hermann’s cheek, and Hermann leans into  it. “For the record I would’ve beaten him up for you.”

Hermann snorts. “How noble,” he says, but relived though he may be he still feels a little foolish for not knowing how to properly express to that man he has  _no interest._

Newton’s seemingly able to read his mind, as always. “Hey,” he says, nudging Hermann with his elbow. “You wanna ditch dessert and go home? So you can recover,” he loops his arm around Hermann’s waist and squeezes him, and Hermann feels pleasantly warm and fuzzy inside (his lovely husband), “from that  _terrible_ traumatic experience?”

“I’d love nothing more,” Hermann says, knowing full well that  _ditch dessert_  means  _go home and eat ice cream out of a carton together_ , and Newton bumps their noses together and smiles.


	69. jealous!newt baffled!hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hi! Are you still taking requests? If not please ignore this! I was wondering if perhaps you could write a fanfic with jealous!Newt and baffled!Hermann because he never thought Newt was jealous type, let alone for him (it took him a couple of years to realize he was head over heels for Newt and even longer to succeed at asking him out after various attempts and fails at flirting). So Hermann makes sure to remind him how much he loves him in the cutest way he can think of!

Newt never considered himself possessive, not by any means. The concept was always foreign to him; he dated, sure, here and there when he had the time (which wasn’t often, back even beforethe war, and they usually fizzled out after a week or so), but he’d never met another person he connected  _that_ deeply with, or cared about enough to inspire– _this_ in him. And then, you know, along came Hermann, with his weird quirks and tics and wide-lipped frowns and truly inspiring ability to irritate the shitout of Newt, and Newt took one look at him and thought  _mine_. And that was before they even got their shit together. Now, though, now–

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Newt huffs, nudging Hermann along the sidewalk a bit faster than usual. Partially because it’s cold and Newt wants to get them both home, partially because he wants to get as far as way from that bar as possible. That bar where  _two_ separate men (handsome, way handsomer than Newt) sent Hermann drinks and made eyes at him from across the room, despite the fact Hermann was  _very_ clearly there with someone else (Newt). Newt’s not entirely proud of his actions–guzzling down both martinis and then almost heaving them back up because he ate too many mozzarella sticks, and then very nearly forgetting to pay their tab when he hustles Hermann out the door–but he  _will_ stand by them as his most rational course of action.

Hermann does not see it that way. “My apologies to your poor ego,” he says, but his eyes are crinkling in amusement. “I’m sure if we’d stayed, you’d’ve gotten plenty–”

Newt lets out a low hiss. Hermann doesn’t  _get_ it. “Not what I meant, dude,” he says. He curls his arm a bit more protectively, tighter, around Hermann’s waist. Hermann’s eyebrows jump high.

“Oh, Newton,” he says, teasing smile spreading across his face, “surely you’re not the jealoustype?”

“No,” Newt says quickly. “Maybe.” Hermann comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. Newt sighs. “Yes. Look, some guy tries hitting on my husband, I’m gonna get a little pissy, okay?” They’re household names now, after all, the duo that mashed their minds together to help save the world, and Hermann is in particular after that little spot he had on the Discovery Channel last month. Who wouldn’t want to hit on a rich and famous scientist, especially if they were as hot as Hermann?

“Despite, of course, that your husband has no intentions of reciprocation?” Hermann says. He uses his free hand to angle Newt in for a little kiss, and Newt almost sags against him. Hermann parts with that same teasing smile on his face. “You know I  _only_  have eyes for you, my love.” Newt feels all funny and warm inside, the way Hermann usually makes him feel when he does something stupidly cute or romantic, so he just nods, lets Hermann do the steering now as they keep walking.

They take the metro home without incident–Newt was pretty sure the nerdy twenty-something with the NASA backpack sitting across from them was eyeing up Hermann too, but he backs off when Newt coaxes an usually amorous Hermann into making out–and when they make it through the door of their apartment, Hermann pushes him against the wall and resumes making out almost instantly. “Jeez,” Newt squeaks, as Hermann noses against the skin of his neck and fondles Newt’s sides; he’s set his cane aside, so Newt’s taking most of his weight so he won’t teeter over. “What’s–what’s the occasion for this?”

“You know,” Hermann says in his ear, squeezing at Newt’s love handles like he loves doing, “I thought you were teasing me when you used to flirt? Back before, of course. You were so  _intelligent_ , so  _handsome_ , I couldn’t believe you’d actually–well. And then nothing I tried ever worked–”

Newt can’t help but snicker a little; Hermann’s attempts at flirting had consisted of thrusting lukewarm cups of coffee at Newt in mornings in the lab without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment when Newt thanked him, telling Newt he liked his tie or that his glasses made his eyes look nice, and–exactly one time–texting Newt a single, solitary, heart emoji, and nothing else. “Dummy,” Newt says, and Hermann pinches his stomach. “ _Ow_.”

“I love you a great deal,” Hermann says, earnest and soft, and Newt’s eyes sting a bit, because they’re  _married_ and it still gets him when Hermann says shit like that. “More than anything. More than you can possibly conceive. You must know I’d never–darling, are you crying?”

“Shut up,” Newt says, with an embarrassing, shaky laugh, and Hermann wraps him up in his arms and kisses across Newt’s wet cheeks. “You’re such a  _nerd_ , Hermann. I love you so much.”


	70. farmers' market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> After they've saved the world and have time to just relax, Newt and Hermann do cute gay things together, like go to the farmers' market as a kind of date. Hermann loves buying delicious food for Newt and Newt loves buying beautiful flowers for Hermann. Plus, Newt can find all kinds of sweet-smelling artisanal soaps and stuff for sexy bathtime fun, and Hermann can find all kinds of cutesy little treats to hand-feed Newt.

“ _More_  flowers?” Hermann says, as Newton, who had disappeared some five minutes prior, pops back into view from behind a used book stand with a little bunch of red-orange-yellow daisies in hand. Hermann should know better than to let Newton loose in places such as these: anything and everything remotely interesting catches Newton’s attention, and the second he turns his lovely green eyes on Hermann and smiles and calls him some sweet little name Hermann is powerless to deny his husband anything. 

“And honey,” Newton says, waving a beehive-shaped glass jar happily at him. He sticks it in Hermann’s tote bag–which is already quite heavy from the sheer amount of homemade candles, jams, vegetables, multicolored soaps, tiny little odds-and-ends that Newton picked out, and  _two_  other bouquets of flowers–and then tries to force the daisies in.

But Hermann shakes his head. “No more flowers,” he says. Newton sticks out his lower lip; Hermann feels a little pang of guilt, so he leans in and kisses Newton’s cheek in apology and adds in a soothing voice, “We haven’t enough  _vases_ , darling, where would they go?” All their vases back home are currently still victim to their farmer’s market visit two weekends prior, claiming every available surface in their cottage that isn’t cluttered with journals or research or half-finished crossword puzzles and covering them with wilting petals instead.

Newton looks put out for all of one minute, then nods. “Okay. New plan,” he says. He slips off the little string that holds the bunch together and begins sticking daisies haphazardly into the brim of Hermann’s straw sunhat, Hermann’s top buttonhole (which he has undone so as to feel the cool autumn breeze), behind Hermann’s ear, into Hermann’s top shirt pocket. When he’s finished, he dusts the pollen from his hands onto his overalls and pulls Hermann in for a brief kiss. “There,” he says, taking on the task of shouldering the tote bag and then linking his arm through Hermann’s now-free one instead. “You’re like a handsome forest prince.  _My_ handsome forest prince.” Hermann ducks his head and smiles.

Newton behaves himself after that and doesn’t run off anymore, so when they sit down at a picnic table so Hermann can rest his leg for a little while, Hermann buys him some sweets as a reward: a few pastries, some candies, a caramel apple, and Hermann gets sugary kisses as his  _own_  reward. “You’re trying to fatten me up,” Newton declares, after finishing a third miniature apple pie. 

“I’m keeping you well-fed,” Hermann says, brushing some flakes of pastry from Newton’s shirt. “There is  _quite_ a difference.” Hermann has a vested interest in keeping Newton as happy and round-cheeked as possible, and Newton has never once complained.

Newton’s begun poking through the tote bag, and he pulls out a bottle of lavender bubble bath that Hermann picked out when Newton was busying himself with free samples of bread and takes a whiff. “Hey, cool,” he says, and then waggles his eyebrows at Hermann. “Wanna test this out tonight?”

“ _I’ll_ be testing it out tonight,” Hermann says, because the last time they attempted anything remotely amorous in their too-tiny bathtub they nearly ruined the linoleum and Hermann bruised his forearm on the faucet.

“We’ll,” Newton corrects, screwing the cap back on. “ _We’ll_  be testing it out. Maybe we can use some of these, too, be  _super_ fucking romantic about it,” he adds, pulling out a few candles from the bag as well. He says some more things about the soap or candles, perhaps, but he has a distracting bit of caramel sticking to the corner of his mouth and Hermann can’t help but lean in and lick at it. Newton laughs, makes a face, nearly drops a candle to the dirt. “Dude, gross! Get your own.”

“Mm. No.”


	71. sexy cowboy halloween costume (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> newmannenby asked:  
> Hey uhhh i got an Idea i Thot you might like: Newt goes as a cowboy for halloween. Not any cowboy tho like a Really Slutty Cowboy w/ Assless leather jean shorts, a short beige shirt knotted showing off the Soft tum and a silly pink cowboy hat. Oh and he Rides Hermann. If it inspires a fic i implore u to run away w/ it

“That’s so fucking good, honey,” Newton says, breathless, grinding his hips back furiously, “so good, so good, oh—” Hermann, half-drunk with pleasure, grips the pink rope lasso securing Newton’s hands together and yanks back  _hard_ , and Newton yelps, a shudder going through his whole body. Newton’s a pretty sight tonight (it’s Halloween, after all, and Newton loves Halloween), a silly pink cowboy hat perched on his head, a little frilly beige crop-top tied and knotted just above his abdomen, tight jean shorts with the ass cut out to give Hermann perfect access for  _this_. Hermann thinks he may have been a little overly-enthusiastic in pulling Newton onto the bed almost instantly when Newton strutted out into bedroom swinging the little lasso and fellating the barrel of a plastic toy pistol, but Newton looked  _so_ lovely, and he winked and made a cheeky little comment (about  _riding_ , or perhaps about certain parts of his anatomy being Hermann’s “treat” for the holiday, Hermann is too starstruck with lust to remember), so hell if Hermann isn’t justified.

“Tell me I’m good,” Newton whines, head falling back against Hermann’s shoulders as Hermann fucks up frantically into him, mouthing at Newton’s neck, tugging the lasso, reaching around and squeezing Newton’s soft, exposed stomach, “tell me, baby—am I good? Is this good? Do you like how tight I am?”

“Oh,  _yes_ , Newton,” Hermann moans, never failing to enjoy a little dirty talk, and Newton clenches around his cock and shivers again. Hermann feels his orgasm building, coiling low and hot in the pit of his stomach, and Newton is emitting the kinds of sweet noises that mean he’s close, too. “You’re lovely, you’re so—”

“I love dressing slutty for you,” Newton continues, in that same high-pitched whine that’s getting higher, higher, and his thighs shake with effort as he rides Hermann, “I love  _you_ , I love—”

Their doorbell rings.

Newton’s hips stop.

He and Hermann stay very, very still, panting, waiting, staring at their cracked bedroom door. After a few seconds, the doorbell rings again. A handful of knocks, varying in strength, follow. A terrible thought dawns on Hermann.

“Newton, love,” Hermann says, recalling standard Halloween night procedures _,_ “did you remember to shut the porch light off?”

“Uh,” Newton says.

“And leave the bowl of candy out?”

“ _Uh_.” Newton twists, looking back at Hermann guiltily. His eyes have gone bleary, his face is flushed bright red, and sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. (He’s debauched, and so terribly, terribly close.) “Yes? I’m pretty sure?”

The doorbell rings again. “Trick-or-treat!” a voice shouts.

“Okay,” Newton says, “ _maybe_  I forgot.” Hermann groans. Newton squirms in his lap. “I was all excited, okay?! And, like, super fucking horny.” He squirms again, Hermann’s cockhead brushing deep inside him, and Hermann inhales sharply.

“We’re  _not_  answering it,” he says, and thrusts up into Newton to give him the stimulation he’s so obviously seeking. Newton shouts in surprise, and Hermann quickly moves his hand from Newton’s stomach to his mouth to cover it. (Their bedroom door is cracked, after all, and a hoard of trick-or-treaters are just down the stairs and beyond the front door.) “ _Hush_ ,” Hermann says, “hush, darling, you mustn’t—” Their doorbell rings again. “You mustn’t be too  _loud_.” Newton moans something indiscernible out and flicks his tongue out over Hermann’s fingers, and the knocking picks up again, more determined this time. Hermann grits his teeth and tugs on the lasso. Newton spreads his legs wider. “So good,” Hermann breathes in his ear, rocking hard into tight heat, and his dear, lovely husband shakes and moans and nods his head, “and obedient, and gorgeous,  _Newton_ , oh—”

The knocking gets louder. There’s another muffled—and moderately more irritated—“ _Trick or treat_!”

The very last threads of Hermann’s patience snap and fade into nothingness. He  _will_ get Newton and himself off tonight. “Oh, fuck it,” Hermann hisses, and then pushes Newton down flat on his face, ass up high, and starts fucking him in earnest. He can’t go at it for very long, not without his leg hurting him like hell, but Newton’s muffled, enthusiastic shouts are enough, how he wraps one leg around Hermann’s waist and urges him on with frantic little nudging to the small of his back, how he twists and strains at the bonds of the lasso. “Come, Newton,” Hermann says, low in his ear, creeping his hand down the front of Newton’s shorts to rub at him as he grinds his cock in him, then pulls out for what he’s sure will be the push they both need, “come for me, darling, please—”

There’s a solid  _crack_  against the side of the house. Newton and Hermann both startle in surprise, and Hermann misses his mark entirely and fucks between Newton’s denim-clad thighs instead by mistake. It’s not exactly an erotic feeling—it’s  _denim_ , after all—and he winces and swears and rolls off Newton.

“Fucking  _Christ_ ,” Newton snarls into the bedsheets, then sits up, teetering unsteadily. There are a few more cracking sounds against the house, and Hermann finally realizes what’s happening. “Those fucking gremlins are egging us!” Newton says. “Over candy! Who the hell even does that anymore? We helped save the  _world_ , we deserve—” There’s another crack, and Newton starts struggling unsuccessfully with the lasso. “Dude. Hermann. Untie me—”

“You are not throwing eggs at children, Newton.”

“One egg,” Newton says. “A singular egg. A warning egg. I won’t  _actually_ hit any kids with it, you know, just—let them know the possibility is there. And then we’re back to fucking like nothing even happened.”

Hermann chews on his lip, pensive. “One egg,” he relents, untying Newton, and then adds, because he knows it’ll please Newton, “for  _each_ of us.”

Newton beams at him—mission accomplished—then uses his newly-freed hands to pull Hermann into a kiss. “I love you,” he mumbles. “I’m gonna put pants on and then  _we’re_ gonna chase off some punks.”


	72. protective hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I loved that piece about adorable chubby-cheeked Newton being ready to throw hands at anyone making moves on his man. Like, he's the least threatening person ever but boy oh boy he'll try. Any chance of a matching oneshot where Hermann's down to fight over his loud tattooed man?

Newt was never exactly the type who had to field a lot of attention from overly-flirty or overly-interested dudes–he was always the youngest of the bunch, you know, hopelessly abandoned by puberty, always too short and geeky and high-pitched to catch anyone’s eye–but after the whole almost-end of world thing, after he and Hermann started living their kinda-rockstar life, he  _does_ get some glances, some numbers scrawled on napkins sent across bars with free drinks and winks. And Hermann does, too. They usually respond the same way each time: Newt links his left hand with Hermann’s, holds them up, gestures to their wedding rings, and mouths  _sorry!_  while Hermann sits there looking smug (or, if Hermann’s the one who’s been propositioned, looking offended that anyone would dare even  _suggest_  he would be with anyone but Newt, which is fucking excellent for Newt’s ego). Easy as that.

Except tonight it’s not easy. Tonight, Hermann’s been gone for a grand total of five minutes to get them each another drink–Newt’s love of sweet stuff with paper umbrellas and fruit on tiny plastic swords evidently passed over to Hermann in the drift–and some dude with a mullet like a bad 80s movie villain’s already muscled his way over to Newt’s bar stool and stolen Hermann’s vacant one. “Hey,” Newt says, eyeing him up nervously (because he’s at least a head taller than Newt and looks like he could probably pick Newt up if he wanted) “uh–”

The dude hands him a beer. “On me,” he says, and smiles. 

“Oh boy,” Newt sighs, and places the beer delicately on the counter. “Listen, man, I’m flattered and all, but–” He holds up his left hand, flashes the wedding ring. “I’m happily married, actually, very happily, and my husband will be back any–”

“Yeah, but he’s not here  _now_ , is he?” the dude interrupts, and presses closer, “C’mon, honey.”

_Totally_  bad 80s movie villain. Not even subtle. Newt half expects him to shove him into a locker if Newt says no or something. The guy tries to grab Newt’s hand, and Newt dodges him and makes a face, places his hand firmly on the guy’s chest instead and pushes him backwards. Or, tries to, anyway. He mostly just sways in place.

“I’m  _married_ ,” Newt repeats, “and I wouldn’t be interested even if I wasn’t,  _thanks_ , so please fuck–”

The guy suddenly doubles over, swearing loudly and grabbing at his knee, and then Hermann steps into view around him. He’s got two bright pink cocktail glasses balanced in one hand and is readjusting his grip on his cane in the other. “Newton,” he says, eyes wide and fake-innocent, and Newt’s heart swells with  _love_ , “is something the matter?”

“He hit me with his cane!” the guy says, pointing accusatorily at Hermann.

Hermann looks down at his cane, then back at the guy, still with that same air of innocence. “Did I?” he says.

“That doesn’t sound like Hermann,” Newt adds, helpfully, staring at Hermann with wild heart eyes. “Not at all.”

“Frankly,” Hermann says, as Stuffy Professor as possible, “I am  _astounded_  you would even suggest I’d do such a thing.” He pokes the man’s calf with the end of his cane threateningly. “And unless you’d  _like_ me to…”

The dude hightails it out of there, and Newt doesn’t even wait for Hermann to put down their drinks before swooping in on Hermann and kissing him. He catches Hermann off-guard, so it’s not really making out, mostly just their noses bumping together and their lips missing each other’s, and he’s pretty sure he gives Hermann stubble burn, but it’s  _very_ enthusiastic. “Babe,” Newt gasps into Hermann’s mouth, gripping his hair, and Hermann places a protective hand on his waist, “that was so  _hot_ , oh my  _God_!”

“Newton,” Hermann says, face heating up, “we’re in  _public_ ,” but he doesn’t protest when Newt starts kissing down his neck instead. If anything, his hand on Newt’s waist tightens further.

“And romantic,” Newt continues, “ _totally_ fucking romantic. Ugh. You totally beat up a guy for me.” Newt has the hottest, smarted, bravest husband in the fucking  _world._

“Technically,” Hermann says, “ _ah_ –” Newt kisses the spot behind Hermann’s ear that he knows drives him wild, “I hardly did more than–”

“You beat him up,” Newt says, and Hermann stops trying to argue and lets Newt grope him and kiss at him to his heart’s content. “Screw the drinks, dude, let’s go home and make out.”

“Okay,” Hermann agrees, happily.


	73. excited hug!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Headcanon/prompt that the first time Newton physically picks Hermann up is in the Shatterdome during the first war. An experiment or project that they're collaborating on (a rare occasion) finally pays off and they're both so euphoric that Newton picks Hermann up and swings him around in a massive hug before either of them realize what's happening.

There is a split second between when Newton exclaims “Holy  _shit_!” and when he tears off his work gloves and sweeps Hermann off his feet and into the air, and a multitude of thoughts cross Hermann’s mind in that second–that they did it, that they did it  _together_ , that they were right, that maybe they make a fine team after all–and Newton beams, and he laughs, and he swings Hermann about. Newton’s joy is infectious, and Hermann forgets himself: he laughs, too, lets his cane clatter to the floor, gets lost in Newton’s smile (and in the startling knowledge that Newton is  _quite strong_ ). “ _Ha_! We actually didit!”

“We  _did_ ,” Hermann agrees, and he clings to Newton’s arms–Newton’s  _strong_  arms–so as not to lose his balance when Newton sets him back down on the ground. They stare at each other, giddy, mere inches between them, Newton’s hands on Hermann’s hips and his glasses hanging at the end of his nose and Hermann’s blazer all askew. Newton sways closer, and Hermann thinks–wildly–that they’re close enough to kiss, and then Hermann’s knees shake and he goes hot in the face. “Newton,” he says, clinging more tightly to him, “ah–”

“Huh?” Newton says, a sweet, goofy smile still on his face, and then he blinks and flushes. “Oh! You need–” he reaches down and snatches up the cane, presses it into Hermann’s hand, and Hermann takes it with mumbled thanks. “Sorry,” Newton says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking, determinedly, a foot to the left of Hermann’s head. “I got–”

“Carried away,” Hermann says, heart pounding, already missing how Newton’s arms had felt around him and how Newton’s hands had felt gripping his waist.

“Yeah,” Newton says. “Yeah.”

Hermann adjusts his blazer and straightens his shoulders. “I did, as well. Er. It’s–”

“Yeah,” Newton repeats. “Cool. Okay.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose and gives a double thumbs-up. “Uh. Back to work?” 

Hermann nods. Newton flees back to his side of the lab.


	74. sexy halloween costume hermann (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Usually Newt dresses up sexy on Halloween for Hermann, but sometimes Hermann surprises Newt by dressing up extra sexy. Newt comes home like "Hey babe, how was your daAAA...wow."&Hermann's perched daintily on the bed wearing lacy stockings with matching bralette&panties&a SUPER sheer little nightie, all under a white labcoat. "Oh no, oh dear. Um...Uh...I...I wasn't expecting you back so soon, Dr. Geiszler. *bats eyelashes* I know my attire is inappropriate, pls don't report me! I'll do ANYTHING!"

Newt should’ve suspected something when Hermann–who plans and charts everything meticulously, he has  _spreadsheets_  for how long their goddamn shampoo and coffee beans will last them–suddenly, just after they got back from the university, declared he forgot to buy candy for trick-or-treaters and Newt better run out immediately to get some. Newt had been gearing up all day for scary movie night-slash-groping his husband under the throw blanket, so he was kinda pissed that Hermann was making him go out in the  _cold_  for  _candy_ , but Hermann grabbed him by his tie and made a very persuasive argument, and so a thoroughly well-kissed Newt dashed out to get the candy he was sure Hermann bought a week ago. And then he dashed back just as fast, and the living room and kitchen were suspiciously empty, but the bedroom door was cracked and Hermann was on the bed and he–

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newt says, mouth hanging open, and Hermann pulls his hand off himself and yanks his lab coat ( _Newt’s_ lab coat he keeps at home for when he wants to do some questionable DIY basement science experiments) tight around himself, a bright red blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Dr. Geiszler,” he says, mock-horrified, “I hadn’t expected you back so  _soon_!”

“Huh?” Newt says, dumbly, staring at Hermann’s lace white stockings, at where–moments before–Hermann’s thighs had been spread apart, where he’d been rubbing himself through lace white panties. Newt’s already hard. “Uh?”

“I’m  _mortified_ ,” Hermann says, still clutching his lab coat shut. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

Newt is thinking a lot of things, and it takes him a while to get to the most important thing, ie, that he’s supposed to be roleplaying too. They’ve done stuff like this before, this exact scene, actually, but usually  _Newt’s_  the slutty lab aid who ends up bent over a desk while Hermann fingers him with sterile and slicked-up gloves as punishment for his Transgressions.

Newt’s fucking thrilled to mix it up. 

He puts the bag of candy on the bureau, shrugs off his leather jacket, and folds his arms, and then settles on his best Stern Professor face. “This is  _very_ inappropriate, Mr. Gottlieb,” he says, in his Stern Professor voice, which also sounds a lot like his Hermann Voice. “I expected better of someone like you.”

Hermann flutters his eyelashes demurely. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking of you–”

“Of me?” Newt says, inching his hand towards a lacy ankle. “Why, honey?”

“How could I not?” Hermann says. “I kept thinking of how intelligent you are, of how big–” Newt snorts, “–and strong you are, of how  _handsome_ you are. Oh,  _Dr_.  _Geiszler…”_ He’s laying it on a little thick, and he  _knows_ it, because Newt can see him struggling not to laugh, can see the smile tugging at his lips. Newt circles that ankle with his fingers and rubs at it with his thumb. Hermann’s cheeks go redder still. “I couldn’t help–” Hermann’s voice trembles, with laughter, arousal, or his feigned embarrassment, Newt can’t tell. “I couldn’t help but  _touch_  myself.”

“Hermann,” Newt near-moans, “I mean, Mr. Gottlieb, I’m going to have to, uh, to punish,” Hermann stops clutching at his lab coat and lets it fall open, revealing a sweet little bralette that matches the panties (the panties his flushed cockhead pokes out from) and a sheer negligee, “uh, I’m gonna.”

“Mm?” Hermann circles his thumb over his nipple through the lace of the bralette, then brings his other hand down slowly, slowly to his cock, rubbing at it again through a little wet patch of precome.

“Holy shit, dude,” Newt says, and then unceremoniously jumps Hermann.

“Oh, Dr.  _Geiszler,”_ Hermann moans, as Newt leaves messy kisses along his throat, runs his hands over his bralette, “oh, in the  _lab?”_ (As if half their wartime trysts hadn’t been in their lab.) “This is  _surely_ against OSHA regulations–”

“Shut up,” Newt says into Hermann’s neck, and Hermann laughs, and enthusiastically lets Newt have his way with him.


	75. lumberjack newt (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Expanding mind thought on your lumberjack AU on Twitter, Hermann needs to be TIED UP with Newt's flannel like 5 hours ago
> 
> (for the unaware two or so weeks ago i was like “newt and hermann get a cottage together and newt chops wood for the fireplace and grows a beard in the fall and looks like a sexy lumberjack and hermanns INTO it” and it cursed me)

For all Newton and Hermann love their cottage, it’s certainly not the most comfortable in the colder months. The central heating is perpetually broken, no matter how often Newton fiddles with and pokes at it, so they have to rely mostly on the fireplace. And Newton, being Newton, insists it’s foolish to buy firewood when they live with a perfectly good forest in their backyard, and so spends every autumn swinging an  _ax_ about and chopping wood himself for their stockpile. Hermann was worried of the safety hazard at first (Newton is not exactly graceful) but after three years, he’s gotten skilled at it, so Hermann has learned to relax. Embrace it, even. More than embrace it.

Especially since it means he gets to ogle Newton’s muscles flexing under his soft flannel (the sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his tattoos), his tight jeans straining over the curve of his ass when he bends over to pick up each new log, the steady, determined look on Newton’s face–eyes narrowed, tongue poking between his teeth–as he works. It’s the same look he wears when he takes control in the bedroom, and Hermann’s having a not-quite-unwanted reaction to it. It doesn’t help that Newton’s grown out his greying stubble into some semblance of a beard. He looks horriblyhandsome. Like a scruffy lumberjack.

So, yes, Hermann ogles. He drinks a cup of coffee, he knits, and he ogles.

Newton notices, of course. He always notices. He bends over a little more than necessary, unbuttons the top buttons of his flannel, lets out grunts when he swings the ax that are  _far_ too orgasmic to be decent. Hermann’s half-hard and feeling amorousbefore Newton’s even made it to two dozen logs, and he’s entering the dangerous territory of outright sexual fantasy: Newton as a kind, handsome stranger helping out poor bachelor Hermann, all alone in his little cottage. Perhaps Newton as a hired hand. Hermann’s own personal scruffy lumberjack. Hermann would thank him profusely, of course, for his help, for his time, and Hermann would offer money, tea, a hot bath, and Newton (sweet, hardworking Newton) would refuse, and Hermann would invite him inside instead, and… Hermann sets down his yarn and clears his throat. Newton gets in one last swing, and then props the ax against a tree stump and wipes some sweat from his brow. “Yeah?” Newt says.

“You’ve been  _such_ a help to me,” Hermann says, in the innocent kind of voice he only ever uses when they’re putting on roles. Newton’s eyes light up behind his glasses. “Truly, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Newton swaggers over to the porch, and he leans against one of the pillars with his arms folded. “Hey, no problem.”

“You see,” Hermann continues, “well–you see, I live alone.”

“Really? Here I was thinking you’d have some hunky husband,” Newton says, already eyeing up the front of Hermann’s wool trousers. “I bet it gets pretty lonely here without anyone. Scary, too. Handsome guy like you deserves some company.”

“Company such as yourself?” Newton grins and nods. “I’m afraid I don’t have much money to pay you for your troubles,” Hermann continues, “but perhaps we could make…other arrangements.” He unbuttons his top button. “It’s  _terribly_ cold out tonight, after all. I could use someone big and strong to keep me warm.” Hermann spreads his legs a minuscule amount, just enough that the wool clings to his erection.

“You know, honey,” Newton says, leering, “I’m  _very_ good at handling wood.”

 

Newton scoops Hermann up in those  _wonderfully_ strong arms hardly a few seconds later, and carries him and his cane into the cottage to the little rug in front of their fireplace. He strips Hermann of his clothing, then himself, then–to Hermann’s pleasedsurprise–takes his flannel and ties the sleeves around Hermann’s wrists, binding his hands behind his back. “What’s this for?” Hermann gasps, slumped against one of the legs of their loveseat as Newton kisses hungrily down his body. He tugs a little at the sleeve restraints; they’re loose, enough that they don’t hurt, but Hermann does not think he’d be able to slip out of them without Newton’s help.

“Sit back and relax,” Newton murmurs, “I’m gonna warm us up,” and he kisses Hermann’s prick through his cotton undershorts. His beard rubs at Hermann’s inner thighs, and Hermann squirms and moans. He considers having Newton just suck him off so he can feel that scruff, but the prospect of Newton inside him is too alluring to pass up.

When Hermann’s fully nude (and shivering–it really  _is_ cold), Newton preps him quickly with lube they have stashed under the loveseat for occasions such as this, warms him up with more kisses and touches to his cheeks, his chest, his nipples, and then grips Hermann’s waist and pulls him down on top of his cock. Newton’s thick and lovely and stretches him in a way Hermann loves every time, and he shuts his eyes and chokes on little groans as he adjusts. He stretches his left leg out, wraps his right one around Newton. “ _Hermann,”_ Newton buries his face in Hermann’s neck and wraps his arms tight around Hermann’s body, their sweat-slick chests sticking together, “fuck, dude.”

“That’s lovely,” Hermann gasps when Newton rolls up into him, and Hermann watches his husband’s face twist and contort beautifully with pleasure, lit up gold by the firelight, “oh, Newton, dear–”

(Newton chops wood once a week. Hermann doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it.)


	76. gag reflex (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> OH BOY. If you're looking for a prompt, imagine the first time Hermann goes down on Newt and Neet discovers that his labmate has zero gag reflex.

“A blowjob would be awesome,” Newt says. “I mean, you don’t have to–” **  
**

“No,” Hermann says, so quick that Newt almost raises an eyebrow. “No, I’d like to.”

Newt sits, sprawled out on his bed with his jeans in the doorway and Hermann lying between his legs. See–they’ve both been tense, lately. It’s just a friends-with-benefits deal. Well, he doesn’t think Hermann would like being called his friend. Lab partners with benefits? Neither of them have let off any steam in a while, is the thing. (Newt’s not sure Hermann’s ever let off any steam.) He vocalizes this, which is probably a mistake. “Have you ever even–”

“ _Yes_ , Newton,” Hermann snaps. “I’ve done this before.” He lifts a hand towards Newt’s boxers, and Newt has to stifle a moan. Hermann’s lips twitch up into a smirk. “Have  _you_?”

“Shut up,” Newt says. It’s just…hot, seeing Hermann like this. He didn’t even take his reading glasses off before he laid down. Hermann brushes his hand up against Newt’s cock through his boxers, and Newt whimpers, twitches at the touch.

“Eager?” Hermann says. He starts slowly rubbing his hand up and down; Newt moans, this time.

“Sorry,” Newt says, turning red. “I’m just a little–” Hermann rubs a little harder, thumbing at the head of his cock, and Newt feels himself leaking precome through the fabric. Shit, it’s been so  _long_ since he’s been touched like this by anyone but himself. And it’s Hermann, at that. Hermann, who’s frustrating and probably Newt’s best friend and weirdly sexy in some grumpy librarian way.

Hermann tugs down the elastic of Newt’s boxers just enough to swipe his tongue across his slit. Newt grabs at the sheets, but Hermann pulls back. “Come on, man,” Newt pants. “Just–” Hermann swipes his tongue across again, rubbing his hand along Newt’s dick, and Newt’s hips twitch up again. “Come on!”

“Come on what?” Hermann says, looking particularly smug in a way Newt doesn’t like. He noses at Newt’s dick, and Newt grabs at his short hair instead.

“Just suck me off already,” he begs.

“I could,” Hermann hums, and flattens his tongue, presses it to the tip, blinks up at Newt with those long lashes. Figures the bastard would be a tease. “This?” he murmurs, after he pulls away again. “Would you like me to do this, Newton?”

“You bastard,” Newt groans. “I hate you.”

Hermann sucks the whole head of his cock in, hums around it, and Newt knows he’s not gonna last long at all. For one thing, Hermann’s got those wide lips, you know, and they look hot wrapped around Newt’s dick. Hot as fuck. “Suck me,” Newt begs, “please, Hermann–”

Hermann pulls his boxers down slowly until they’re around Newt’s thighs, wraps his hand around the base of Newt’s dick. He blinks up at Newt with those lashes again, questioning, and strokes his hand up once. “Yeah,” Newt moans, “yeah, like that–” Hermann slides those lips down further, hollowing his cheeks (his hot, angular cheeks) and Newt chokes on another moan. Steady, he tells himself, steady, steady, and Hermann stares directly into Newt’s eyes and goes lower, lower,  _lower,_ (“Oh fuck,” Newt whines, “oh fuck, fuck,”)until his nose brushes Newt’s pubic hair. 

Newt’s pretty average size, you know, not an intimidating length by any means, but he’s never had anyone take him down that deep that fast before. He definitely didn’t expect that anyone to be fucking  _Hermann_ of all people. Hermann, who’s stuffy and uptight. Hermann, whose eyes are glazed over with lust, whose lips are slick with spit and precome, who’s gripping Newt’s thighs and has got Newt’s entire cock down his throat and sucking happily at it like he could easily take more. (He didn’t even  _gag_.) It’s too much. It’s too good. Too overwhelming. Newt sort of– “Fuck!” he gasps, and comes down Hermann’s throat before Hermann even has time to bob his head once.

Hermann’s eyes widen in surprise, but he swallows everything down without problem and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand when he pulls off. “Newton–” he begins, voice raspy, and Newt shakes his head, cheeks burning.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say anything.” He drags a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, dude, where is your gag reflex?”

Hermann just smirks again. 


	77. hermann + dresses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> That farmer's market newmann art reminded me of one of my very fav newmann things: Hermann in pretty skirts. I feel like Hermann would rly love flowy skirts/dresses (think like Florence Welch ethereal fae creature skirts/dresses) but he's afraid to wear them bc his dad was The Worst when Hermann was growing up. But Newt finds Hermann's pretty skirts tucked away in the back of their closet and goes all heart eyes. "Babe, you didn't tell me you like dresses! Can I see them on you?! Pretty please?"

It takes them a good month to get everything moved out of their rooms at the Shatterdome, and another month after that–a month of hotel room hopping, rented storage lockers, boxes of old research and clothing sent back to Newton’s father in Boston for safe-keeping–before they  _finally_ settle down somewhere that Hermann can see being more than just a temporary home. It’s a cozy little flat, just enough room for the both of them, and though Newton insists he’s going to find them a cottage eventually (“By the sea,” he explains, “or in the middle of the woods. We’ll be living the reclusive genius life of our dreams,”) Hermann loves it just fine. Though he expects he’d love anywhere he can be with Newton just fine.

Three weeks after they had everything shipped back to them at their new place, they’re still unpacking the odd box or two. Mostly Newton’s extensive manga collection and some old chipped, stained coffee mugs from the lab Newton refused to toss on the grounds of sentimentality. They’re sitting on the living room carpet going through what remains, and Hermann’s rifling through a box of original sketches of his Breach model (“I bet you could sell those to a museum for a  _lot_ ,” Newton says) when he hears Newton exclaim in surprise. “What’s wrong?” Hermann says, not tearing his eyes away from the heavily-marked rough draft of an old joint publication of his and Newton’s. 

“I think they sent us someone else’s shit by mistake,” Newton says, and Hermann looks up. And freezes immediately. Newton’s holding up a long, floor-length pink skirt, and the box he’s pulled it from is packed with other similar garments–a floral skirt, a yellow sundress, an embroidered white blouse with sleeves that flare at the end. All  _very_ familiar. On account of them being Hermann’s.

“Ah,” Hermann stammers, flushing brilliantly, and he half-makes a grab for the skirt before stopping himself. “Er. See. They’re not–”

Newton’s eyebrows jump a fraction, in shock, Hermann assumes, and then his face splits into a smile. Not a teasing smile, not at all, but the sweet, genuine smile Newton gives Hermann when Hermann’s done something exceptionally pleasing or surprising. Hermann’s heart rate steadies immediately and his nerves ebb away. (He’s not remotely sure why Newton would’ve teased him in the first place. It’s  _Newton_ , his drift partner, his husband, and anyway, he’s seen Newton in dresses and skirts–though his, typically, are a lot shorter, and with odd and gaudy patterns–more times than he can count) “Are they–?”

Hermann nods.

Newton whistles, then begins digging through the rest of the box. He pulls out the sundress and the blouse, a few more long skirts, a pale blue gown Hermann bought years ago but never had the chance to wear, another dress that’s knee-length and deep green and white-collared. “ _Wow_ ,” Newton says, running his fingers over the blue gown, “this is  _nice_. How come I’ve never seen you in any of these?” He holds the yellow sundress up to Hermann’s chest, and the look on his face is so terribly, terribly lovesick that Hermann’s heart begins thudding for an entirely different reason.

“My father–” Hermann begins, and Newton’s eyes flash, and his smile twists to a frown.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says. 

As Newton continues to seethe with righteous fury on his behalf, Hermann begins rummaging through the box himself and pulls out something billowy and patterned with flowers and butterflies, then something dark and floor-length and covered in stars and spiraling galaxies. “These two are my favorites,” Hermann says, and Newton’s smile returns.

“You’re so cute,” Newton sighs happily. “And I bet you look handsome as shit in these.” He picks up the butterfly one. “Hey. Could I see–I mean, do you wanna…?”

Hermann needs no urging. Ten minutes later, he stands in the doorway of their living room in the dress. He’s dug out one of his old sunhats from a box in their bedroom, too, one with a white ribbon tied about it and artificial flowers along the brim. (He hasn’t worn that hat since a singular trip to the shore he took when he was nineteen.) He’s shy, at first, he can’t help it really, but the longer Newton stares at him with wide eyes and pink cheeks, the straighter Hermann stands, the more confident he feels, the more relaxed his grip on his cane becomes. “Hermann,” Newton says, coming up to him. He puts his hand on Hermann’s exposed shoulder, runs the other one down from the vee of the dress’s neck to the cinched waist. “Jeez. Hermann. You’re–” He laughs, and Hermann flutters his eyelashes with over-exaggerated coyness. “You look like a super-hot model.  _Wow_.”

“Do I?” Hermann says.

Newton stretches up on the tips of his dirty converse to kiss Hermann, then encircles his arms around Hermann’s waist. “You do,” Newton says, and bumps his freckled nose against Hermann’s. “That dress with your super hot cheekbones and your super hot legs and your super hot collarbones–babe, I’m buying, you, like, fifty more of these. Any dress you want. All of them. I promise.” He sighs again. “ _Wow_.”

* * *

Newton makes good on his promise. A week later, Hermann comes home from his evening office hours at the university and finds a light turquoise, yellow-flowered off-the-shoulder top with a matching flowing skirt spread out on his side of the bed. (Newton looks at him with doe-eyes when he models that for him.) Two days after that, he finds another sundress and a tasseled green skirt. Hardly twenty-four hours after  _that_ , it’s a gown not unlike his pale blue one, only this one is silvery and silky and feels far,  _far_ more expensive than anythingHermann would  _ever_ consider buying for himself. The price tag has been suspiciously trimmed just below the barcode. “Newton,” he calls, and a wooden spoon-wielding Newton–in an apron dotted with rainbows and UFOs, and, Hermann is begrudgingly pleased to see, as he’s trying to be  _cross_  with Newton, a red plaid skirt–pops his head around the corner of the bedroom.

“Yeah?” he says, and then holds the spoon out to Hermann. “Want to try dinner?” Hermann shakes his head, then prods in the direction of the dress on with the end of his cane. Newton smiles sheepishly. “Wrong size? Do you not like it?”

“Newton,” Hermann says. “How much did this cost?”

“Okay,” Newton says. “ _Maybe_ kind of a lot, but the second I saw it I was like ‘Hermann would look like a hot space prince in that’and I couldn’t just  _not_ buy it.” He hurries over and holds it up, the fabric shifting and moving smoothly, and Hermann sees that the back is quite low-cut. “And you can flash your hot shoulderblades.”

Hermann laughs despite himself. “My  _shoulderblades_?”

“In my professional opinion as a biologist–” Hermann laughs again, and Newton grins, “–they’re hot, hot shoulderblades. The hottest shoulderblades on the block. Everyone wants a piece of them.” Newton tosses the dress back down on the bed (Hermann feels a pang, surely it’ll wrinkle) and wraps Hermann up in his arms. Hermann’s cane thumps to the carpeted floor, and Newton starts kissing across Hermann’s cheeks. 

“Newton,” Hermann protests, but he cards his fingers through Newton’s hair, “I can’t possibly keep it. Where am I supposed to wear it?”

“Fancy anniversary dinners,” Newton interrupts. “Fancy dinners in general. Weddings. Parties! We’ll think of something. Besides, we’re kinda loaded now. If I can afford to shower you in fancy stuff, I’m gonna.”

“Oh, alright,” Hermann says. “ _But_.” Newton stops his kissing and blinks at him. “No more dresses, Newton. Or skirts.” He eyes their wardrobe nervously; it’s become worryingly crowded, lately, harder and harder to find things in every day. “We’re running out of closet space.”

“Got it,” Newton says, nodding furiously. “Yep. Cool.”

Newton does  _not_ make good on this promise, but Hermann can’t say he really minds.


	78. hermann + dresses (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Okay but Hermann surprises Newt by buying a new dress for himself. It's a delicate little lacy dress, the softest shade of pastel pink ever. It's dainty and lacy and it shows off Hermann's gorgeous long legs. Newt takes one look at Hermann, then picks him up and carries him bed so Newt can worship his irresistibly beautiful man.
> 
> AND
> 
> Anonymous asked:   
> Newt likes to hang out under Hermann’s skirts. Sometimes just to pet and kiss Hermann’s sexy supermodel legs, sometimes to blow Hermann, sometimes he’ll flip Hermann onto his stomach so Newt can eat him out (because Newt’s a slut for eating ass and we all know it).

Newton’s libido is not erratic, per say, Hermann’s not totally unable to determine when and when not Newton will be feeling amorous and handsy, but he’s found that the oddest things set Newton off. When Hermann rolls his  _r_ s, for example, he’s instantly guaranteed a lapful of eager biologist, and when he wears a pair of Newton’s sweatpants to bed, he’s guaranteed Newton hooking Hermann’s ankles over his shoulders to properly have his way with Hermann.

Today, it’s because Hermann tried on a new dress he bought–pink and layered and lace-trimmed, knee-length and dainty–and Newton took one look at him him when he stepped into the kitchen that morning, downed the rest of his mug of coffee, scooped Hermann up into his arms, carried him back to bed, and proceeded to stroke his legs and tongue-fuck Hermann until Hermann was a sweating, writhing mess on the bedsheets.

It’s exactly the kind of treatment Hermann loves.

Now, post-orgasm, he lays on his stomach with his face buried in the pillows, hazy and sated and happy and with Newton’s head still up his skirt. “Newton,” he sighs, feeling Newton’s stubble brush the sensitive skin of his admittedly flat rump and his inner thighs, where Newton’s saliva cools, “oh, darling, that was lovely.”

“Thanks,” Newton laughs, voice muffled. He plants a little parting kiss to Hermann’s left thigh, but he doesn’t duck out from under the skirt just yet. He merely… _shifts_ a bit. Hermann is surprised; usually, after eating Hermann out, Newton wastes no time in slicking himself up, sliding into Hermann, and enthusiastically finishing up that way. Newton’s not one to dawdle when it comes to sex. Then Newton shifts again. And again. He grasps at one of Hermann’s calves.

“Hermann,” he says.

“Mm?”

“I, uh,” he says, and Hermann can barely hear him, “I think I’m tangled up down here, dude.”

Hermann cracks an eye and looks back over his shoulder. Sure enough, the lower half of the dress has twisted round Newton oddly, the multiple layers of lace trapping him there, and no amount of wiggling on Newton’s part is doing him any good. Hermann stifles a giggle. “Oh, dear.” He imagines Newton’s current lack of glasses isn’t helping him much, either. “Here, just–”

He tries to lift the skirt up, but it’s near impossible with his current position on his stomach. Newton groans and wiggles a little more. “God _damn_ it,” he says, coming to a stop. “I’m just gonna rip it before I lose my boner. Or run out of air. Your butt is cute, Hermann, but it’s not worth dying over.”

“Do  _not_  rip my dress,” Hermann warns.

“I’m gonna rip it,” Newton declares, and Hermann feels him grip the lace underskirts and start tugging at them frantically. There’s the telltale sound of fabric– _expensive_ fabric–beginning to tear.

“ _Newton_. Do  _not_ –”

The dress’s skirt splits up the back, all the way past the waist and nearly up to Hermann’s neck, and Newton emerges, victorious. “Ha!” Then he notices Hermann’s scowl. “Hey,” he says, “okay, listen, I’m sorry, I’ll buy you a new one, okay?” Hermann turns away from him. “Baby, honey,” Newton starts kissing Hermann over his newly exposed back, and Hermann must admit it feels lovely, “come on, Hermann, I’ll buy you a new one, I promise.” Hermann  _hmph_ s. Newton nuzzles against his spine, rubbing the tented front of his boxers against the cleft of Hermann’s rear, where he’s still sensitive. “Her _mannnn_.”

“Dreadful little man,” Hermann mutters, but it sounds more like a compliment than the scolding he intended, and he smiles as he says it; it’s impossible to remain unmoved in the face of Newton’s sweet onslaught of kisses. “Fine.”


	79. terrible flirter hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If you're taking prompts could we have a fic where Hermann tries (and fails) to flirt with Newton who doesn't notice

This isn’t the first time that Newt’s caught Hermann staring at him (Hermann, sometimes, likes to go the passive-aggressive route when Newt’s fucked up and glare at him from afar until Newt notices and comments), but it’s the first time that Newt can remember Hermann being so… _blatant_ about it. And in a not-pissed way. He’s not even pretending to hide it. He’s just standing at his chalkboard, chalk poised, watching Newt’s every move: carrying specimens back and forth from the lab fridge, cutting open organs, tapping his scalpel against his workbench in time with the music playing over his earbuds. It’s enough that Newt thinks he must’ve spilled something on himself, or something. He pulls one earbud out. “Dude,” he says, “what gives?”

“Hm?” Hermann says. 

“Do I have something on me?” Newt says, looking down at his tie and his button-up, both of which are clean. Well, as clean as anything Newt owns can be, so it’s very, very stained and dingy, but there are no stains on it that surpass being newer than a week.

“Oh!” Hermann says. “No.” And then he gets a very weird look on his face, like he’s eaten an entire lemon whole or just opened up a carton of milk and discovered it was two weeks past the sell by date. “Your shirt,” he says.

Newt looks down at himself again. “My shirt?”

“The cut,” Hermann says. “Is very…flattering. Is it new?”

“Um,” Newt says, unsure of whether or not Hermann is having a stroke or hit his head or something. “No?”

Hermann keeps staring at him for a little while longer, mouth twisted in that same weird way, and then he nods curtly and resumes writing on his chalkboard.

It’s weird, but Hermann’s a weird guy, so Newt doesn’t mull over it too much. They’re busy, anyway. The good fight never ceases. Newt doesn’t have the time to keep an index of all of Hermann’s puzzling behaviors, even if they  _have_ been increasing in frequency lately. Last week, for example: Hermann came up to him in the lab and complimented his work ethic, and thanked Newt for not being too loud lately (all while laying his hand on Newt’s arm). A few days after that, he became convinced Newt had an eyelash on his cheek and took great pains in sidling up into his personal space and brushing it off. And yesterday, he made a point of saving Newt a piece of cake from the mess hall when Newt cut dinner to work through the night, and left it on his desk with a little note that said  _I hope this flavor is satisfactory._

Maybe Newt has been keeping a bit of an index. But it  _is_ weird.

It just gets weirder, too.

“You know, Newton,” Hermann says the next morning, conversationally, as the two of them drink coffee together in the tiny kitchenette corner of the lab, “I’ve not seen you date in a while.”

He’s sitting  _pretty_ close to Newt. Enough that their knees touch on the couch. Newt can’t say he minds it–the opposite, actually. (His stomach feels weird when Hermann so much as brushes against him, which is why this whole thing has been doubly weird.) “Yeah,” Newt says, and laughs, a little awkwardly, “just haven’t really, uh, had the time, you know? Besides,” he stirs some creamer into his coffee, “people aren’t exactly lining up.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Hermann says, and gets that sour twist to his lip again. “You’re not unappealing.”

Newt almost chokes on a sip of coffee. “…Thanks?”

Hermann reaches over and covers Newt’s hand with his, still looking mildly pained. Newt thinks he might be about to say something else, but Hermann just pats it once and then gets up and walks away.

That night, he texts Newt a single red heart emoji. Nothing before it. Nothing after it.

Newt doesn’t know what goes on in that guy’s head sometimes.


	80. staring into each others eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ee-void asked:  
> HELLO would you mind 21 with our precious science gays? ( o v o )
> 
> 21: Staring into each others eyes

It’s a rare quiet day where they’ve got nothing planned, no work to attend to, no obligations, which means they can spend it how they please. Newton suggests getting dinner or seeing a movie. Hermann suggests coffee and going for a walk. 

They don’t end up leaving their bed, too wrapped up in each other.

“Your eyes,” Hermann says.

Newton smiles, rubs his thumb over the sharp lines of Hermann’s jaw. Hermann’s  _all_  sharp lines and angles. Not soft, like Newton, with his round cheeks and love handles. “My eyes?” Newton says. He pulls Hermann’s hand to his mouth and brushes his lips over his fingers, his wedding ring. Hermann’s heart beats impossibly loud in his chest. “What about them?”

He’s long since cataloged everything he could about Newton, tucked it all away in the back of his mind long before they even married: Newton’s laugh, his smile when he first wakes up, how he takes his coffee, the freckles spreading across his arms his tattoos scarcely hide, a scar on his left knee from when he fell as a child. Newton’s eyes are green-hazel and nothing that Hermann hasn’t noticed before (he knows how they look hazy with sleep and squinting with rage), but also nothing he’ll ever grow tired of. “They’re lovely,” he says.

Newton kisses his ring. “Nerd,” he says. He kisses Hermann’s lips, next. “I like yours, too.”


	81. pet names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I don't know if you're still open to those prompts but if you are, number 4 please?
> 
> 4: Pet names (endearments)

The first time it happens, Newt’s sure he’s hearing things

As a general rule, Hermann doesn’t use nicknames for Newt–not like Newt’s casually flung  _dude_ s and  _man_ s, not like how everyone else forgoes the professional  _Dr. Geiszler_  for Newt. Just Newton. Always Newton. It was Dr. Geiszler, once, back in the first letter Hermann ever addressed to him (Dr. Geiszler, I eagerly await your correspondence) before Hermann got the hint that Newt  _hates_ being called that, but after that it was Newton, Newton Hermann’s penpal, Newton Hermann’s ex-pen pal, Newton Hermann’s lab partner (he couldn’t bring himself to revert back to the formality, Newt assumed, not after their years and years of trans-continental intimacy), Newton Hermann’s scientific rival and more-and-more frequent bed partner, Newton Hermann’s maybe-sort-of-boyfriend (?). Newton, Newton, (sometimes  _moron_ or  _bloody fool,_ or  _kaiju groupie!_  when he wanted to rile him up around others, but almost always pre/proceeded by a  _Newton_ ), but never Newt, and the thing was, Newt  _loved_ it. It was something special. Something entirely for him. So he got used to it. Embraced it.

“Thank you, my dear,” Hermann said exactly five minutes ago, taking a cup of coffee from Newt with a distracted kiss. He was pouring over some old papers–old equations, something that looked like one of Newt’s ancient grad school articles–so he didn’t notice Newt’s look of shock, the way he nearly dropped his own cup of coffee.

Exactly five minutes ago. Newt sits at his desk, now, staring at Hermann’s tweed-blazer-clad back and replaying it over and over in his head. Hermann couldn’t have called him  _dear_. Newt has to be wrong. Hermann doesn’t even call Newt things like  _Newt_ , and he certainly wouldn’t call Newt things like  _dear_. “Hey,” Newt calls to Hermann.

Hermann looks over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“What was that?”

Hermann smiles, cordially. “I said thank you.”

“Uh, right,” Newt says. “Yeah. Cool. Okay.”

The second time is a mildly more intimate setting. They’re making out on the lab couch, Hermann tucked snugly against the cushions with Newt sprawled out on top of him, leaving purple-black bruises along Hermann’s joint of neck and shoulder and making Hermann sigh and gasp sweetly, when Hermann cups the back of Newt’s head and sighs dreamily and says “That’s  _wonderful_ , darling.”

Newt freezes, lips stilling against Hermann’s skin, then lifts his head and stares at Hermann.

“Something the matter?” Hermann says. His tongue darts out across his kiss-bitten lips. Something warm is spreading in Newt’s chest, coiling tightly, but comfortably, round his heart, and he grins broadly at Hermann.

“Nope,” he says. “Not at all, honey.” A pleased smile creeps across Hermann’s face; Newt dives back in to drawing more of those little sounds from Hermann.

It becomes more frequent after that, and less shocking each time; Hermann accepts his coffee  _every_ morning with  _thank you, my dear_  and a perfunctory kiss, calls Newt _darling_ when he’s feeling amorous ( _magnificent, darling, do that again, darling_ ), wraps his arms round Newt in the lab when Newt works too late and kisses the back of his neck and says  _come to bed, my love_ (his bed, not Newt’s, because they share one, now) or says  _I’m sorry, my love_  after they’ve had a nasty fight, and sometimes–very special, very rare times, only when he’s half-asleep and thinks Newt’s half-asleep, too–he’ll hold Newt in his arms and murmur  _dear Newton, my dear Newton,_ until they both doze off. 

So Newt gives as good as he gets, of course, what kind of boyfriend (!) would he be if he didn’t? He calls Hermann  _hot stuff_ and  _baby, honey_ and  _sweetheart_ ,  _babe_ when he wants to see Hermann make a face and  _big guy_  (or  _Hermann, you hunk!_ ) when he wants to make Hermann laugh into his kisses, even  _cutie,_ once, when Hermann shows up to the lab, stricken by a cold, in a mustard yellow wool sweater and his old,  _old_ glasses with round frames half the size of his face.  _Cutie_  makes Hermann blush to the roots of his dorky hair, so Newt uses that one for a while.

“I like it when you call me stuff like that,” Newt confesses one night, as a sleepy Hermann pets his hair and calls him  _dear love_. “It’s…nice.”

“Mm,” Hermann hums, brushing his lips over Newt’s forehead, and the warmth in Newt’s chest blossoms once more. He squeezes Hermann a little more tightly to him.

“‘Night, handsome,” Newt says.

Hermann kisses his forehead again. “Goodnight, my love.”


	82. sickfic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Prompt #5, Newmann :’)
> 
> 5 Taking care of the other while sick

“This is hellish,” Hermann declares, miserably, holding a tissue to his nose. Next to him, Newton coughs–into the  _air_ –and smiles sheepishly. Hermann throws the box of tissues at him. “Cover your mouth, you bloody bastard, you’re a biologist, you know how–”

Newton locks eyes with Hermann and coughs again, not even bothering to pretend to raise a fist to his mouth. “What’s the point?” His voice is so raspy Hermann can barely hear him. “We’re both sick. My germs are your germs.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, I suppose,” Hermann says. He sneezes, very pointedly, into his tissue, and Newton rolls his eyes.

Back in the Shatterdome, Newton and Hermann hardly ever took sick days. Too much work to be done, too little time to do it in. It’s been a hard tradition to crack, even now that the war’s over and they’ve settled into a flat and their far-less-demanding university positions, but this year’s bought of flu strain has been particularly awful and neither Newton nor Hermann remained unscathed. Hermann fell ill first, and finally conceded to a sick day; Newton, determined to play nursemaid, cancelled his classes as well and soon followed, and now they’re here, in their softest clothing (old, worn pajama bottoms with Newton’s sweatshirt for Hermann, sweatpants and Hermann’s sweater for Newton) and wrapped up on the living room couch.

Hermann felt a touch guilty, at first–Newton would be fine had he not waited on Hermann hand and foot, curled close to Hermann in bed every night to keep him warm through his feverish chills, cheered him up with kisses even when Hermann voiced concerns for Newton’s health–but that quickly evaporated when he realized what a  _toddler_ an ill Newton can be. He fusses, he complains, he moans about his sore throat and headaches, and he’s even more apt to pick fights than usual. Nearly all of Hermann’s patience is gone.

Newton very gently removes Hermann’s legs from his lap and attempts to wiggle out from under the three layers of blankets they’ve cocooned themselves in. “You want anything?” he says, seemingly forgetting his childishness of only moments prior. “Tea? Soup? I think we have some left over from yesterday.”

Newton’s face is terribly pale, and Hermann does not want a repeat of two days ago, when Newton–who’d yet to realize he caught Hermann’s illness, clammy and feverish though he was–attempted to make Hermann tea and almost fainted to the kitchen linoleum, so Hermann shakes his head. “No,” he says, touching Newton’s arm. “No, darling, stay here.” He sneezes again, rather pitifully, and Newton’s eyes go soft.

He tucks himself back under Hermann’s legs and the blankets, and massages at Hermann’s thigh gently. Hermann shuts his eyes. “Wanna watch TV?” Hermann shakes his head. Newton moves a little closer, enough that Hermann can hear his dry, shuddering breaths. “Wanna make out?”

Hermann cracks an eye. “ _No_.”

“It’s the same germs, honey,” Newton protests. “Same germs!”

“I am not kissing you just for you to hack up a lung halfway through,” Hermann says, and punctuates this, unintentionally, with a sneeze. Newton winces and ducks away.

“This blows,” Newton says, pouting.

Hermann considers him for a moment, then lifts the blankets as best he can. The introduction of non-stale air makes them both shiver. “Newton,” he says, and opens his arms. Newton’s latching onto his chest and nosing into the curve of Hermann’s neck in a matter of seconds, and when he’s made himself comfortable, Hermann drags the blankets over them once more. Newton is heavy atop him, but nothing that Hermann isn’t used to, and the added warmth of Newton’s soft body is more than welcome.

“Thanks,” Newton mumbles. He’s snoring gently only a few more seconds after that.


	83. rubbing noses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> prompt 5 for newt and herms, or if that’s already requested prompt 26 (:
> 
> 26 Rubbing Noses

“Come here,” Hermann says.

He holds a poorly-knit scarf–one of Newton’s own handiwork—out threateningly, from where Newt doesn’t know, and Newt ducks away. “No,” Newt says. “Dude, I’m  _fine_.”

“Newton,” Hermann says, sternly. He’s wrapped in about five scarves himself, of varying colors and length and pattern (one striped horizontal, one vertical, one plaid, one a rainbow monstrosity Newt made him  _mostly_ as a joke, but Hermann ended up loving it and it became a staple of his winter wardrobe). Scarves just  _aren’t Newt’s thing_. Not his look.

He explains as much to Hermann. Hermann does not back down.

“You’ll freeze,” he says. “It’s  _snowing_.”

It is: they’re on their front stoop and snowflakes are falling fast, catching on the sidewalk, in the hood of Hermann’s parka and dusting his shoulders. The white puffs of their breath mingles together in the air. The walk to the restaurant is not long, but Newt’s leather jacket is definitely not meant to withstand this kind of winter weather (weather he hasn’t seen since before the Shatterdome). Still. He’s not giving in. “No way.”

Hermann lowers the scarf. “Then we’ll stay home, reservations be damned.”

Newt crosses his arms. Hermann glares. A gust of wind blows snow directly into the lenses of Newt’s glasses, and he shivers.

“God. Fine,” Newt says. He’d never  _willingly_ miss a date with Hermann, and especially not an anniversary date.

Hermann loops the scarf around Newt’s neck with his free hand. “There,” he declares, knotting it snugly. “Warm?” Newt stops shivering; he sighs and nods. Hermann pulls him in by the scarf’s ends for a kiss. “Good,” he says.

Hermann has tiny little snowflakes in his eyelashes, and his cheeks are pink with the cold. He’s ridiculously handsome. Newt leans back in and rubs their noses together, cupping the back of Hermann’s–well, not hair. The back of his hood. “Thanks.”

Hermann smiles, and kisses him again.


	84. college au prt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by..........me
> 
> orig post: "this weekend i couldn’t stop thinking abt that one dumb newt/herm college au ficlet i posted in like august so instead of writing an essay on pride and prejudice tonight i wrote a part two of it instead. enjoy, if you want."

Newton is far too eager when he answers the door, pulling Hermann in for a hug, asking him how the walk over was, even trying to sneak a little kiss. Hermann does end up allowing the kiss. “I’m only here to copy the lab notes,” Hermann reminds him, and Newton  _mm-hmms_ noncommittally and ushers Hermann inside. **  
**

“Newton,” Hermann says warningly, as the door is shut behind him and he ends up crowded against it with an eager, freckled face pressed up against his own. He prods at Newton’s shin with the end of his cane. “ _Only_  the lab notes.”

“You’re no fun,” Newton says, but he backs off graciously. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt that says  _Dad Bod_  in large block letters, his multicolored flora and sea creature tattoos on full display. “Okay, fine, grumpy, get comfy and I’ll grab them. You want tea?”

“No,” Hermann says, but Newton grabs a mug from his kitchen counter and presses it into Hermann’s free hand. He’s already made him a cup. The way Hermann likes, too. “Oh, fine,” Hermann says, following Newton’s advice to  _get comfy_ and slipping off his rain-damp oxfords. “But nothing else.”

“Uh-huh,” Newton says, distracted. He’s flipping through an impressively large collection of takeaway menus. “What are you in the mood for? Pizza?”

“I have homework,” Hermann says.

Newton holds up one menu. “Chinese?”

Hermann glares.

“I’ll pa _aa_ aay,” Newton says, waving it.

Hermann falters for only a minute, and that’s all the window Newton needs. He smiles. “Chinese it is!” he exclaims. He tosses the other menus into a drawer and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Seriously dude, get comfy.” Hermann casts a glance around the room. He’s never been to Newton’s dorm before. There’s a small futon stained with what looks like coffee in several spots, a ratty-looking recliner, a coffee table covered in old mugs and guitar picks and stacks of bent biology and engineering textbooks. “I cleaned up for you,” Newton says.

“Ah,” Hermann says, looking at bowl of completely dry and shriveled ramen noodles laying on its side under the recliner.

“I mean I cleaned my  _bedroom_ ,” Newton corrects, and waggles his eyebrows.

“Lab notes,” Hermann says, setting his mug on the coffee table and swapping his cane between his hands so he can shrug off his parka, “and dinner. That’s it, Newton, so help me.”

“Uh-huh,” Newton repeats, grinning.

* * *

“I bought beer, too,” Newton says, kissing up Hermann’s neck, his stubble scratching Hermann’s skin in a not-unpleasant way, “if you want it, I mean.”

“The tea was perfect,” Hermann says. “Shut up and take off your shirt.”

Newton sits up, straddling Hermann’s thighs, yanks his t-shirt off over his head and tosses it over his shoulder. It lands on top of his alarm clock. He pats at his flabby, inked abdomen like he’s playing a drum. “You insanely turned on right now or what?”

Hermann is, maybe, turned on. He grips Newton’s forearms and tugs him back down to kiss him, and hears their lab books fall from Newton’s bed to the carpet below, next to the remnants of their cold rice and even colder vegetable lo mein. There’s what sounds like a fortune cookie smashing under the weight. Newton laughs into his mouth. “Whoops.”

Hermann eyes up the lab books and sighs, as Newton attempts to worry a hickey just above his collarbone. “I really do need to copy those notes, Newton.”

“You’re killing my ego,” Newton whines, but he rolls off Hermann.

Hermann kisses the tip of his nose. (Newton beams.) “Good,” he says, and sits up against Newton’s body pillow. Newton hops to the floor to gather up their notes, and Hermann finally takes in the rest of Newton’s room. He has a few wrinkled and torn posters– _The X-Files, Godzilla_ , something Hermann doesn’t recognize–as well as art prints Hermann assumes he bought as comic cons tacked up on the walls, a record player, a lava lamp, a shriveled collection of plants on his windowsill, comic books half-hidden under piles of laundry. He also has several Polaroids of them together (Newton’s arm around his shoulder, Newton kissing his cheek, Hermann kissing  _Newton’s_  cheek, a blurry Hermann shouting at Newton about something) hanging on a string above his desk. Hermann likes those the best.

“Here,” Newton says, tossing the notebooks at Hermann, who catches them. And then, with a little  _ha!_ , Newton’s suddenly pulling his guitar out from under his bed. “Here it is!” he says.

“You  _lost_  your guitar?”

“Nope,” Newt says, sitting back on his heels. “I mean, yes, but it’s not lost anymore!” He strums it a few times, tuning it, and then pulls the rainbow strap over his head. He’s still shirtless. “Did I tell you I wrote a song for you?”

Hermann shakes his head, smiling a little. “Another one?”

“I was gonna sing it at that thing last month,” Newton says, the vague  _thing_  being an open mic night not unlike the one they met at, but at the campus coffee house rather than the student union, “but, you know.” Newton’s three-man band, tragically, broke up thirty minutes before they were due to go on when his bass guitarist and drummer staged a mutiny on account of being tired of only performing songs about  _Newt’s boyfriend_  and not covers of preexisting like they used to.

(“I can’t help that you’re my muse!” Newton told Hermann later that night as they ate cold pizza at the campus dining hall.)

Before Hermann can politely decline–he’s  _very_  fond of his short, odd, brilliant boyfriend, but as skilled a guitarist as Newton is, his original songs tend to be more like  _ballads_  and can last well beyond eight minutes and Hermann really needs those lab notes–Newton’s broken into song, eyes shut in concentration as he goes on about bowlcuts and English exchange students and holding hands under lab tables.

Hermann applauds politely when Newton’s done.

“Thank you,” Hermann says. “It’s very nice. I love it.”

“Did you really?” Newton says, beaming again.

Hermann nods. Newton tosses his guitar aside and stands up only to flop next to Hermann on the twin bed. They barely fit side-by-side in it. “Wanna spend the night?” he says, still beaming, his thick glasses askew. “We can watch Star Trek on my laptop and make out some more.”

Hermann has an essay on  _Wuthering Heights_  due for his English gen ed course tomorrow that still needs a conclusion paragraph, but the walk back to his dorm is long and it’s raining and Newton’s sneaking a strong, warm arm around his waist. “I’ll stay a little while longer,” Hermann concedes, and Newton hums contentedly and begins to wriggle a hand up the hem of Hermann’s oversized sweater. “But only a little while. I mean it.”

Hermann spends the night.


	85. learning what the other person likes sexually + spicing up the relationship in the bedroom (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> prompt 1, 4, or 30 from the domesticity/intimacy meme? you reblogged it awhile ago so if ya don’t wanna do it that’s cool
> 
> 30 Learning what the other person likes sexually  
> AND SOME  
> 1 Spicing up the relationship in the bedroom

“Are you a top?” Newton says.

Hermann chokes on his coffee. “ _Newton_!”

Newton just grins at him and brushes the toe of his boot up Hermann’s calf as Hermann splutters and wheezes. “It’s important we know these things about each other,” he says, scraping up the last bit of yogurt from the sides of his bowl with his spoon. “Now that we. You know.” He waggles his eyebrows, then brings the spoon up to his mouth and sucks at it. Hermann wheezes a little more.

Ordinarily, Hermann would not be adverse to the topic of sex–he is not a prude, no matter what Newt may tease–but he  _is_ adverse to discussing it in the mess hall. And the hallways. And the lab. And that’s all Newton seems to want to do, lately, following a certain Event which transpired between them the other night, wherein Hermann (frustrated, exhausted, at his wit’s end) finally snapped under about an hour’s worth of goading from Newton and kissed him, shoved Newton over his own dissection table, fished out some surgical lube, and then proceeded to fuck him senseless. It wasn’t exactly how Hermann pictured their first time going (he pictured more soft kisses, more whispered confessions, Newton warm and pliant and coy), but Newton was eager and  _very_ vocal in his enthusiasm, so Hermann can’t say he minded. And then Newton wanted to talk about it.

“Are you, though?” Newton says. He flicks his tongue out across the spoon. “I mean, I assumed, considering circumstances, but–”

“I don’t know,” Hermann says, face heating up. “I’ve never…” He clears his throat. How to explain to Newton how hopelessly inexperienced he is (not a prude, just  _inexperienced_ ), that he only knew what to do that night because he’s experimented on himself? “That is to say. That was the first time.”

Newton drops his spoon. “Hermann. We’re gonna have so much fun together.”

* * *

Newton is a courteous bed partner, Hermann soon learns, very focused on making sure Hermann is feeling good and enjoying himself. Especially when he’s taking the reigns. That night, he undresses Hermann slowly, kisses him hard, hoists Hermann’s good leg up over his shoulder so he can properly pound into him. “Do you like this more than last time?” Newton gasps, sweaty and red-faced and working his hips, and Hermann hums in thought.

“It is nice,” Hermann says, and then Newton (with a triumphant little shout) grazes the bundle of nerves inside Hermann that makes Hermann see stars. “Oh! That’s  _very_ nice. Do that again.”

“Bossy,” Newton pants. “That’s hot.”

 

“I feel as if we ought to be smoking a cigarette,” Hermann says. “That’s what they do in films.”

“Smoking kills,” Newton mumbles.

“I know that,” Hermann says. “I said we  _ought_ to be.”

Newton gets very clingy after sex. He sniffles a little against Hermann’s chest. “Do you have any?”

“Any what?”

“Cigarettes.”

Hermann does. (He hasn’t smoked in weeks, of course, he’s quitting, thank you.) They split one and watch the smoke as it wafts to the cinderblock ceiling of Hermann’s bunk. “I think this is probably a fire hazard,” Newton says, and then he squints (he’s taken off his glasses) at the cigarette. “Also, I hate this.”

Hermann puts it out.

“Well,” Newton says, propping himself up on his elbows. He smiles. “Final verdict? One you prefer?”

Hermann mulls it over. He loved being inside Newton: feeling him tight and hot around him, hearing him gasp, watching the shifting and straining of his strong, muscled, colorful back as he took Hermann in deeper and deeper. But he also loved the alternative: Newton above him, Newton holding him in his strong arms, Newton kissing him with each thrust into him and moaning  _is this good? is this good? do you feel good_?. “Both,” Hermann says.

“We should do a few more dry runs,” Newton says, seriously. “Just to be sure.”

* * *

Hermann ultimately concludes he’s partial to both. Newton is more than enthusiastic to indulge him.

* * *

“This is kind of fun,” Newton says a little while later.

Hermann narrows his eyes. “I would hope so,” he says.

Newton had been riding him enthusiastically, but now he halts his hips with a breathy laugh. “Not this! I mean, this is  _very_ fun, don’t get me wrong, but I meant banging you in general.”

“Er,” Hermann says. “Thank you.”

Newton rolls his hips down in one long, sinewy movement, dragging a low groan from deep within Hermann’s chest. “Since you don’t know the kind of stuff you like yet and we’re learning it together,” he explains. “It’s just like we’re in the lab. Collaborative research! Like that paper we published. But sexier.”

Newton squeezes around him, and Hermann shuts his eyes and groans again. “Indeed,” he says, reaching up to cup Newton’s round ass. “Oh, Newton, that feels wonderful.”

He hears Newton laugh again, and then Newton’s constricting around him once more; Newton groans similarly this time, too. “Yeah,” Newton breathes, “yeah, you like fucking my tight little ass, baby?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Hermann says, and comes.

* * *

“Dirty talk,” Newton says afterwards. “Good, that’s something we have in common!”

* * *

Newton sets a box down in front of Hermann with a flourish. It’s cardboard and pink, with several shipping labels plastered across it and a slice down the packing tape of the middle. It’s, also, resting right across the report Hermann was attempting to fill out. He slides off his glasses and looks up at Newton. “What’s this?”

Newton hoists himself up onto the edge of Hermann’s desk, grinning. “I thought it might come in handy,” he says.

Hermann opens the box. He immediately shuts the box. “We’re at  _work_!”

Newton’s grin widens, and he opens the box himself. There’s a multitude of–well–of  _everything_ inside; fluffy handcuffs, blindfolds, a bright pink vibrator, lubricant that promises a pleasant sensation for both parties as well as a taste of salted caramel, what looks like a gag. “One,” Newton says, swinging the handcuffs around the end of one finger, “I’m not saying we should use them  _now_. I was just excited and wanted to show you. Two, we literally boned on your desk last night. And last week.”

“Those were after work hours,” Hermann sniffs.

Newton pushes the box (and all of Hermann’s work) aside, and then swings his legs around so Hermann is sitting in the vee of them. “ _Her_ mann,” he purrs, continuing to toy with the handcuffs, “don’t you want to use them on me?” He reaches over and undoes Hermann’s top button. “Or I could use them on you.”

Hermann licks his lips; Newton slides off the edge of the desk and into Hermann’s lap, careful to avoid putting his weight on the wrong side, then starts kissing up his neck. “Mm. Oh, Newton, wait,” but he cups Newton’s ass anyway, “I’ve got those bloody–” 

Newton rubs their groins together. “You wouldn’t rather tie me up and have your way with me?” he says, low in Hermann’s ear. Damn the report.

* * *

Handcuffs and other such restraints, Hermann finds he likes. On himself, yes, on Newton, especially yes. They try them out in a variety of ways: Hermann’s hands behind his back while Newton rides him, Newton’s hands behind his back while Hermann rides  _him_ , Newton tied to the bedpost while Hermann takes him missionary style (which is quickly becoming Hermann’s favorite position–it’s harder on his leg when he’s the one doing the doing, so they can’t do it all too often, but oh, he loves the intimacy of it, of staring into Newton’s eyes and watching the sweet ways Newton’s face contorts), Hermann on his stomach with his hands bound over his head as Newton takes him apart with vibrators and fingers and his cock and, most excitingly, his  _tongue_.

(“Filthy,” Hermann gasped the first time Newton went down on him  _that_ way, “Newton, you’re  _filthy_ , that’s, oh,  _oh_ ,” and Newton laughed and spread Hermann’s thighs wider and drove his tongue in harder, and Hermann writhed on the sheets and wailed so loudly they got a noise complaint the next day.)

Blindfolds and gags: not so much. He loves being able to watch Newton, and Newton confessed to loving watching him as well (“It’s hot as hell,” Newton explained, “your mouth drops open and your eyes get all wide and it’s–wow.”). Gags are out of the question for a similar reason–Newton is so marvelously vocal when he’s being pleasured, and they’re both  _far_  too fond of dirty talk. And–well. Perhaps Newton’s accusation that Hermann likes others knowing what they’re up to isn’t totally off base.

(“Be loud for me,” Hermann breathed one night as Newton rode him, “please–ah–my name, Newton, say–”

“Hermann,” Newton moaned, “ _Hermann_ –” And Hermann’d been seized with a sudden  _wild_ streak of possessiveness, a desire to claim Newton as his and his alone, and he yanked on Newton’s hair and started sucking a bruise into his neck and maybe growled a bit, and Newton began crying out  _yesyesyes!_ )

Hermann likes when Newton sucks him off, especially if Newton lets him finish on his lovely face. He likes how sensitive Newton’s nipples are. He likes how sensitive his own nipples are. He likes when Newton puts on a little show with dildos when Hermann’s too exhausted or his leg aches him too badly to fuck Newton himself, and he likes when Newton compliments him (“Stud,” Newton sometimes moans, or “fuck me with that big dick, baby,” or “you’re so fucking  _sexy”)_ , and he likes–this has happened only once, but Hermann thinks it quantifies–when Newton kisses him when he’s rocking into Hermann and breathes out  _I love you,_ quiet and secret and just for them.

He knows what Newton likes, too. Newton likes being told he’s good ( _very good, Newton, you’re doing excellently_ ) and he likes being called names that make Hermann blush (“But I am a cockslut,” Newton protested when  _Hermann_ protested, “it’s just the truth, honey.”) and he likes being pinned down and pushed around and marked up with bruises that he doesn’t even bother attempting to conceal but, instead, wears around the dome proudly. Newton likes to dress up in ridiculous outfits and act out scenarios with him–a little school skirt that Hermann (the  _stern professor_ ) ends up spanking him under, Hermann’s parka with nothing underneath it (“I’m slutty Hermann,” Newton explained, “math gets me  _soooo_ horny,” then pretended to fellate a calculator), gorgeous stockings and corsets that Hermann, frankly, isn’t sure how Newton can afford, but isn’t upset about in the slightest.

And it is fun. It’s  _very_ fun. Newton is fun.

“Aw, Hermann, give yourself some credit too,” Newton says when Hermann thanks him one evening, quite earnestly, for making the past few months incredibly enjoyable. “I said it’s a collaboration. We’re partners in this!”

“Partners,” Hermann repeats, liking the way it sounds. He and Newton as partners. They’re already lab partners, of course, but– “I see,” he says, warm flush creeping up his neck.

Newton smiles, far more knowing than Hermann would like, and tucks himself under Hermann’s arm.


	86. touch starved hermann + premature ejaculation (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Nsfw prompt idea: During their first time together, Hermann is so touch-starved that he comes pretty much as soon as they start. He is embarrassed, but Newton makes it all better.

Few things, Hermann realizes, are more gorgeous a sight than this: Newton kneeling above him in bed, shirtless, pink-faced, soft and giggling and pliant to Hermann’s touches. He smiles when Hermann pets his hair, nods encouragingly when Hermann runs his fingers down his colorful chest, throws his head back and sighs when Hermann–very delicately–brushes his thumb over Newton’s nipple. “Oh, fuck yes,” Newton says, holding Hermann’s hand over his pec, “yeah, we’re really doing this, huh?” Hermann rolls the pad of his thumb once more over the same nipple, and Newton  _moans_ , throaty and hot, and Hermann’s mouth goes dry.

“We are,” Hermann croaks. He feels light-headed. Half-delirious. So hard he’s strainingin his slacks, where a damp spot slowly grows. Can Newton feel how badly Hermann wants him? Does he know that Hermann’s never been touched like this before, never touched another like this before, how he only  _ever_ wants to touch Newton like this again?

Newton looks down at him with dark, half-lidded eyes. They haven’t kissed since they got into bed. Not since the hallway, not since Newton followed Hermann back to his bunk from the lab, casual as anything, and declared he wanted to have sex with Hermann. They kissed, then, Newton taking the lead, pawing at him enthusiastically and moaning encouragingly when Hermann–finally getting over his initial elated shock–slid his hand that wasn’t clutching his cane in a death grip to rest at the small of Newton’s back instead.

(“You’re too stressed,” Newton breathed into his mouth, sliding his hands under Hermann’s sweater, over his buttons, and Hermann’s heart pounded in his chest. “Let me make it better, Hermann, let me help you unwind.”)

Newton catches Hermann staring at his mouth–pink, swollen from kissing, tiny little teeth indentations where Hermann had bitten down in a fit of boldness–and Hermann scarcely has a moment to collect himself before Newton is bending over and kissing him again. It’s wonderful. It’s everything. Newton swipes his tongue over the seam of Hermann’s lips and then pushes past them, and it’s hot, too hot, it’s too much too fast, “Oh,” Hermann moans, breaking off the kiss to toss his head back against the pillows, “oh, Newton–”

His vision goes starry; the tension that’d been coiling tighter and tighter in his gut ebbs away into a full-body fuzziness. 

When he opens his eyes, Newton’s staring at him with his mouth hanging open. “Uh,” Newton says. “Did you–?”

Embarrassment shoots through Hermann’s post-orgasm pleasure. His face burns hot with shame. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I’m–I’ve never–”

Newton’s shock slips away in an instant. “Hey!” he says, “don’t  _apologize,_ dude, it’s fine!” Hermann grows redder, but Newton just leans over and kisses him again, sweet and soothing. “Don’t apologize,” he repeats. He smiles. “Did it feel good?”

Hermann nods.

“Then that’s all that matters,” Newton murmurs, as he peppers little kisses along Hermann’s jaw and rolls his hips down. His jeans are tented badly, and Hermann’s so sensitive the slightest brush of them, even through the layers of his own wet wool and cotton, makes him hiss through his teeth. “It was hot. It was really hot. You feel how hard it got me?” Hermann nods again. He does feel. “Yeah.” Newton rolls his hips again. He’s begun to pant. “Yeah, that’s for you, baby.”

“Can I touch you?” Hermann says. Newton’s smile widens against his neck. He drags Hermann’s hand down in the tight space between them, past his pink nipples, his soft stomach, down to his straining zipper and button. Together, they undo both (Newton’s relieved sigh nearly enough to set Hermann off again), and then Hermann’s slipping his hand into the hot confines of Newton’s boxers. “You  _are_ hard,” he says in mild surprise, wrapping his fingers round Newton’s prick, where precome leaks freely. “And wet. Oh, Newton–”

“Uh-huh,” Newton groans. He buries his face against Hermann’s still-clothed chest when Hermann starts stroking him eagerly. Newton’s little breaths are coming in faster and faster, and he keeps mumbling  _we’re doing this_ and  _oh, wow, holy shit, wow,_ and  _yes, Hermann, good, good. (_ Hermann thinks he’s mumbling, too,  _good, good_ to echo Newton,  _yes, Newton_ ,  _lovely, lovely thing_.) Newton shakes when he orgasms, and Hermann holds him through it, and when Hermann finally draws his hand away–messy and sticky–Newton rolls off of him to the mattress.

“Wow!” Newton says. He’s beaming, and when he catches his breath, he exclaims, “Hermann, that was so hot!” Hermann makes to wipe his fingers on the bedspread, but Newton catches by the wrist and eyes up his own release thoughtfully. “Want me to lick it off?” he says. He sticks out his tongue and waggles his eyebrows. Hermann’s face heats up again, and he pulls away.

“Er. Maybe some other time,” Hermann says. He doesn’t trust himself to not become overwhelmed again.

“Next time,” Newton says, deliberately. 

“Next time,” Hermann agrees, just as deliberately.

They smile at each other.


	87. rose-colored love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I've seen a couple comics that joke about Hermann having a very romanticised view of Newt which I find hilarious could you write something around that?

It was always hard explaining Newton to colleagues, back in the day. No, Newton was not a research partner, technically, nothing that official–they were not paid to write each other, nor thrown together against their will. Newton was not a boyfriend, either, nor some long-lost love or overseas fiance, nothing so romantic, even if Hermann grinned like a fool when each new letter came in, even if the very mention of Newton made his heart flutter, even if Hermann kept photographs Newton sent of himself tacked up his walls and above his desk. They were friends. They were colleagues. Hermann thought Newton was brilliant and admired him, and Newton admired Hermann in return.

Hermann also loved Newton, madly and unconditionally and with his whole heart.

He did not think Newton loved him in return.

He liked to pretend, sometimes, that Newton did–Newton, handsome and dashing, showing up on Hermann’s front porch and begging Hermann to run off with him. Newton calling Hermann up in the middle of the night and confessing Hermann’s all Newton thinks about, all Newton dreams about. Writing him a love letter, maybe, signing off with  _love, Newt,_ or maybe even  _your Newt_. His Newt.

Hermann was young. Hermann was in love. He was foolish. He didn’t expect anyone to understand (“Weird little bloke, isn’t he?” one of his colleagues had remarked once when they caught Hermann watching an interview a twenty one-year-old Newton gave, before the kaiju, about some research project he’d been working on, and Hermann nearly snapped at them), so he didn’t bother trying to make them.

They couldn’t understand why he was so heartbroken, then, when things turned so sour.

But that was the past. That  _is_ the past.

Newton is still brilliant, and he is also a nuisance.

Hermann is less young, but he isn’t any less in love with Newton.

He thinks he may be  _more_ in love, if anything.

Everything Newton does has the ability to stop Hermann in his tracks: Newton singing in the lab, Newton dancing in the lab, Newton shouting at him about something inane, Newton falling asleep with his head on Hermann’s shoulder on their break couch, Newton laughing at one of his own jokes, Newton brushing their hands together or bumping their shoulders together or–one time, at a bar, when they were both tipsy–looping an arm around Hermann’s waist and giggling in his ear. Half the time Hermann thinks the line down the center of their lab is more for  _his_ benefit than Newton’s; if there was nothing separating them, nothing clearly dividing their space into his and his, Hermann doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from finally just putting an end to his own miserable pining and kissing Newton.

Hermann isn’t any less in love with Newton, and he isn’t any less foolish, so he takes Newton’s hand (they’re going to  _own_ this thing!) and dives with him into hell. They make it out, which is nice and not entirely expected.

After that, Hermann puts an end to his miserable pining and kisses Newton. This is even nicer, especially because recently acquired information from the drift tells him things aren’t nearly as one-sided as he feared. 

“You’re an old romantic,” Newton teases, after  _that_ , when they lay in Hermann’s bed together. They haven’t done anything beyond kiss and occasionally touch each other (light, unsure touches). The closeness of this alone is intoxicating.

“How so?” Hermann says. He smiles.

“I saw how you see me,” Newton says. Terribly rose-tinted, Hermann assumes. “In, you know.” He taps his forehead. “It was…really flattering.”

(Hermann saw how Newton sees him, too: likewise attractive, likewise brilliant, likewise infuriating and magnificent and everything to him. Newton loves him, too. Newton’s always loved him.)

Then Newton’s face splits into a grin. “You really thought it was cute that time I ate a sandwich off the lab floor?” he says. “Or when I fell off my chair and ripped my pants?”

“Er,” Hermann says.


	88. premature ejaculation round 2: electric newtaloo (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Fucking l o v e your work. If you want another NSFW prompt, could you do a reversal of that last one where it's Newton who's so worked up that he comes before Hermann can even get started

“You’re sure?” Hermann says.

Newt nuzzles against his bare stomach. Unlike Newt, Hermann’s a skinny little thing there, nearly concave, and he’s got some ribs showing. Not sickly or anything. And definitely not unsexy. But it does fill Newt with the intense urge to–spoil him, or something, add a little meat to those bones. “Totally sure,” he says. “Very, very, very sure. I’ve never been this fucking sure about anything in my life.”

Hermann’s real cute like this, blushing like crazy, his long limbs sprawled out across his bed (left leg angled up on a pillow), his hair messy (from when Newt pulled at it when they were making out), totally naked except for some tight little briefs and his big, round librarian glasses. (“I’d like to see everything,” Hermann said when he declined Newt’s offer to set them with his own on the bedside table, which, romantic!) So cute Newt just wants to kiss him everywhere. He settles on kissing Hermann’s bellybutton; Hermann gasps, and grabs at Newt’s hair. Newt can feel his boner against his throat. It’s hot.

“This is gonna be so awesome,” Newt declares. “What do you want? Can I blow you? Or–” He mimes a handjob, then mimes licking his fingers off. Hermann doesn’t seem to follow. Newt settles his chin back on Hermann’s stomach and settles for the direct approach. “What terrible dirty things do you want to do with me?”

Hermann hums in thought. “Well,” he says, “ideally, I’d like to fuck you, but–”

Newt startles and almost falls off the bed. “Yeah!” he says. “Yeah, okay, that’s–cool!”

“But I haven’t the proper–you know.” Hermann glances over at his bedside table. Newt kisses his bellybutton again.

“Don’t worry, hot stuff,” he says. “I’m prepared.” He fishes into a pocket of his corduroys for the about fifty condoms and tiny little travel packets of lube he brought with him. As many as he could squeeze into those bad boys. He waves around a few of each triumphantly. “We could go for hours if we wanted.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, eyes growing darker. Newt feels Hermann’s dick twitch a little. “That’s–how thorough, Newton.”

“Mm, that turn you on, baby?” Newt says, fluttering his eyelashes. He kisses at the barely-there trail of light brown, nearly blonde, hair leading down to the elastic waistband of Hermann’s briefs. Another cute thing about Hermann: he’s, like, totally hairless, except for that and a few chest hairs. Nothing compared to Newt. 

Another another cute thing. The more turned on Hermann gets–Newt can see the visual proof dampening the front of his briefs, peeking through the little fly–the more dazed and smiley he gets. Right now, alongside his furious blush, he’s got a wobbly, toothy grin spreading across his face that’s making Newt’s heart pound. And his dick hard. “May I kiss you again?” Hermann says. Newt tosses aside the condoms and almost flings himself at Hermann, and Hermann wraps his arms around Newt’s waist. “You’re very lovely to look at,” Hermann says between kisses, their noses bumping together.

Newt laughs. “I’m not even naked yet.”

“I know,” Hermann says. He smiles. And then gropes Newt’s ass. “This is lovely to look at, too. And touch.”

“Oh,” Newt gasps. Hermann squeezes it again, like Newt’s a human stress toy, at the same time he rocks his hips up, and another hot flare of arousal shoots down to Newt’s dick. “Wait,” Newt says, because, for all his posturing, all his planning, he’s never actually gone beyond the odd blowjob before, and if he’s not careful he’s not gonna last long enough to get to that part. “I’m–”

“Should I stop?”

“No!” Newt says. “No, absolutely no. Keep–” Hermann resumes his squeezing and kneading, rubs his dick against Newt’s. Newt moans. “Yeah. Keep–that.”

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Hermann confesses, low in his ear. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Newton.” Hermann clings to him just a bit tighter and kisses his neck, still rocking their hips together. “Newton,” he sighs again, “oh, darling–”

“Darling?” Newt repeats in a wheeze, and then he comes in his pants.

Hermann makes a noise of surprise. Newt slumps against him. “Er,” Hermann says.

“Fuck,” Newt says, when he’s able to speak again, “fuck, sorry, Hermann, I was just–you’re really hot–”

“Newton,” Hermann says. He reaches up and pets Newt’s hair, then kisses his neck again. “It’s quite alright. I’m close, too.”

“Okay,” Newt says, with an awkward laugh, “okay, cool, uh–” Hermann’s still hard. “Want me to blow you?”

“If you’d like,” Hermann says. “Or–we could–”

He rubs against Newt again. “Oh!” Newt says, and moves one of his thighs between Hermann’s to start rubbing back. Hermann shuts his eyes and moans.

“That’s lovely,” he says encouragingly, “yes, Newton, like that–” 

Hermann’s even cuter when he comes: his blush spreads down his neck, his eyes go wide, and he makes the weirdest little half-moan half-grunt that would make Newt crack up under any other circumstances. As it is, it’s sexy as hell and Newt probably falls a little more in love with him.

 

“We’ll just have to practice more,” Newt tells him afterwards. “Work our way up to it, you know.”

“Mm,” Hermann says. “Wonderful idea.”


	89. recovering from surgery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I just had surgery and recovering from it is not fun at all. Do you think you could write something where one of the boys is recovering from surgery and the other is by their side through it?

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Newt says. “It was only appendicitis. I’m not gonna die on you or anything.”

Hermann does not budge from the cheap plastic chair he’s pulled up at Newt’s bedside. He’s brought some books with him, some notepads, what looks like a crossword puzzle.

“Dude, for real,” Newt says.

Hermann adjusts his glasses and crosses his arms.

“How’d you even get  _in_  here?” Newt cranes his neck around, but the curtains around his bed effectively seal them off from the rest of medical. He’s pretty sure Hermann needs to be an immediate family member or something to see him. “Did you beat someone up?” 

“I’m listed as your emergency contact,” Hermann says. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

Newt vaguely remembers having a reason for doing that, and he thinks it might’ve been something petty. Revenge for something, maybe. Nevertheless, Hermann is here, legally, and–Newt assumes–completely on his own terms. Newt doesn’t remember much about what happened before they wheeled him, clutching at his side and sweating and half-out of his mind with pain, down to the medbay and explained to him he  _wasn’t_ dying and then cut out his appendix, but he remembers Hermann’s worried, frantic face looming over him. “Hey. Dumb question,” Newt says, “but what happened?”

Hermann shifts uncomfortably in the plastic seat. “You didn’t show up for work,” Hermann says. “I grew worried and stopped by your quarters, and–”

“You were worried about me?” Newt says, and grins. “Aw, Hermann.”

Hermann gives a disinterested sniff, then picks up one of his books and starts examining it. “Of course I was worried,” he says, not looking Newt in the eyes. “Just because I–well.”

Newt tries to sit up and tease Hermann some more, but the movement just sends pain shooting through his abdomen (nowhere near as severe as the pain of yesterday, thank fuck) and he hisses. Hermann startles in alarm, then  _tsks_ when he realizes Newt’s fine. “Stay  _still_ ,” he says. “You’ll do yourself no favors otherwise.”

“Yeah, I know, thanks, I am a biologist.” Hermann watches him suspiciously until Newt rolls his eyes and lays back down against the pillows. “There. Happy?” Hermann nods. “Seriously, Hermann, just go home. I’m fine.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hermann says, with an odd aura of smugness. “I seem to recall saying the exact same thing to you when I had pneumonia.”

That was a year ago; Newt refused to leave Hermann’s side for the entire week it took him to recover. It was a very long week, not helped by Hermann’s ever-present grouchiness and insistence that Newt leave and get some work done. Newt concedes the point.

“And, besides,” Hermann continues; his cheeks go pink, to Newt’s surprise. “The lab is too quiet without you.”

Newt laughs. He’d tease, call Hermann a nerd or a sap or something, or remind Hermann that he’s been gone for  _literally_  a day, but he’s actually touched by Hermann’s concern. It’s sweet. And kinda cute. Newt forgot how nice it feels to be fretted over. He’ll concede this point, too. “Okay, fine, but at least find a good chair,” Newt says. “You’ve gotta be stiff as fuck in that thing.” (He knows Hermann slept here the night before, and badly–Hermann’s clothing is rumpled, he’s got shadows under his eyes, and he winces when he accidentally puts too much weight on his left leg, even sitting down.)

Hermann gets a newer,  _much_ better chair, one that Newt approves of, as well as a spare blanket, and they bicker good-naturedly throughout the rest of the day: over the crossword puzzle, over the work Hermann brought with him, over the lunches and dinners the nurses bring them (Newt’s of the professional opinion that Hermann doesn’t eat nearly enough; Hermann’s of the professional opinion that Newt needs to mind his own business and stop trying to steal Hermann’s dessert when he’s not looking right now, thank you). 

When Newt finally begins to doze off (mid-sentence, in fact), he feels Hermann lean over and adjust his blankets, then stroke his hair from his forehead. “Thanks,” Newt mumbles, smiling sleepily at the gentle touch, and Hermann presses a single, barely-there kiss to his cheek.


	90. talking about feelings (mild ref to nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Could you please write something where Hermann thought they were just going to sleep together but now it's the morning after and Newt wants to talk about feelings?

Hermann’s the first to wake up, the morning after. He’s immediately disoriented.

He’s not in his own room, for one thing. (This isn’t Hermann’s bedspread, and those aren’t Hermann’s movie posters, or Hermann’s dying collection of potted plants on the desk across the room, or Hermann’s laundry piled up on the floor.)

For another, he’s not alone.

Newton, bare-chested and disheveled, is tucked under Hermann’s arm–a warm, solid weight against his chest–and snoozing away gently. There are faint hickeys on his throat and down his collarbones. He’s drooling. Every now and then, he sniffles and mumbles something in his sleep and nuzzles more firmly against Hermann. Hermann’s first impulse is to smile, to smooth down Newton’s messy hair, and he’s reaching out when he remembers himself.

_Oh_ , he thinks.  _Right_.

Last night, he and Newton had sex.

They’d worked late in the lab. Newton insisted Hermann stop by his bunk for some reason Hermann cannot recall, and Hermann assented. They’d argued about something, and then Newton kissed him hard, and then Newton undressed him, and then Hermann undressed Newton, and then they had sex. The very thought of it is strange to Hermann. Sex with Newton was not something Hermann had thought would ever be on the table, that there would never be the slightest possibility of it. He’d wanted to have sex with Newton, certainly, he’d dreamed of having sex with Newton, but Newton had never indicated he wanted sex with Hermann in return.

And sex with Newton had been wonderful. They’d started out furious, angry, tearing at each other’s clothing and skin, throwing insults back and forth– _Frigid jackass,_ Newton called him, and Hermann bit at his neck til he wailed and clawed at Hermann’s back. But when it came to the actual act–Hermann against the pillows, Newton above him and taking him in with a high, shrill  _ah!,_ back arching–everything lost its sting. Newton was gentle. Newton was considerate. ( _Is that good?_ he said each time he bottomed out,  _Does anything hurt?)_ Newton rode him slowly, carefully, gasping and sighing, and he kissed Hermann sweetly through the second half of it ( _Yes_ , he said,  _there, yes, Hermann, Hermann, good, yes)_.

Hermann had sex with Newton, and he loved it, so for the life of him he can’t figure out why Newton’s sleeping, handsome face is upsetting him so.

Newton stirs. He blinks at Hermann–just as disoriented as Hermann was–for a few seconds, and then he smiles brilliantly. “Hermann!” he says.

Hermann’s heart sinks to his stomach. “Hello.”

Newton does not roll away, like Hermann expects. If anything, he squeezes Hermann tighter. “You’re here,” he sighs happily. “I thought it was all a wet dream or something.”

“Ah.”

Newton kisses his pectoral, his sternum, then his neck. “Hermann,” he says again, then, “Hermann, Hermann, Hermann,” he kisses Hermann’s cheek, the tip of his nose. “This is so awesome. This is–” Newt suddenly looks very serious. “Was I, you know, okay and all? Double-thumbs up?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, flush creeping up his neck. “Yes, you were–fine.”

“You were great,” Newton sighs. “You were so awesome. I’m all sore. That’s how awesome you were.” He nuzzles against Hermann’s chest again. Hermann, tentatively, rubs at his shoulder. 

Sex with Newton was great, but Hermann’s sure that’s all it was. Sex with Newton. Not a relationship with Newton. Just sex. 

“Wanna get breakfast?” Newton mumbles. “I really want pancakes. Or we could skip it and just fuck again.”

“Fuck?” Hermann says.

Newton looks up at him, grinning. “Sorry, grandpa. Make love. Better? Let’s just make wild, passionate love again.” When Hermann doesn’t immediately respond, Newton’s smile flickers away. “Hermann,” he says. “That, uh–did that mean something to you? It wasn’t just–?”

Hermann doesn’t answer. Is this where Newton lets him down easy?

“I mean,” Newton presses on, “it meant something to me. It meant a lot to me. I really–you don’t have to say anything. It’s fine. It’s cool.”

“Newton!” Hermann says quickly when he realizes what Newton’s implying. “Er. It meant something to you?”

“Uh, yeah?” Newton says, sitting up and looking Hermann in the eyes. “Obviously it did. I’m kinda–” He goes pink. “I mean. I like you a lot, you know, dude?”

“Okay,” Hermann says, nodding. Good. Excellent. That’s– “Good. Right.”

“Cool,” Newton says. His smile comes back, brighter than before. Hermann returns it. “Are we boyfriends now?”

“Let’s, ah, work up to that.”


	91. warm fluff!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I'm chronically ill and back in the hospital and it sucks. Could I ask for some fluffy Newmann fic even if it's short because they give me the warm fuzzies.

“I’ve never celebrated Thanksgiving,” Hermann says, watching Newton attack a bowl of boiled potatoes with a large mallet he’s eighty-percent-certain Newton used in experiments back in the lab. There are bits of potato stuck to the countertop, in Newton’s hair, flecking his glasses, and every now and then he licks some off his forearm. It’s certainly not the most effective way of mashing them, but–as Newton explained, with a manic glint in his eye–it was the most  _fun_!

“You’re not missing much,” Newton tells him, and smacks the mallet again. A few more chunks of potatoes fly out and stick to his flowered apron. “I mean, objectively, shitty holiday with shitty roots, but Dad wanted me to have the full  _American_  experience when we moved here, so.” He smiles. “Usually I just order Chinese food and watch Mystery Science Theater ‘til I pass out, though.”

“So why–?” Hermann gestures around at their poor kitchen, from Newton’s potatoes, to the vegan turkey in the oven, to the two store-manufactured pumpkin pies on the table.  _One for each of us_ , Newton said.

“Because!” Newton says. “It’s different this year.”

Last November, Newton was his lab partner and they were in the Shatterdome, at each other’s throats and teetering over the edge of the end of the world. This November, Newton is his… _boyfriend_ is too juvenile, too simple a word to encapsulate everything they are to each other, but they’re  _together,_ and the biggest threat they have looming over them is their monthly rent. “It is,” Hermann agrees.

Newton puts far too much butter into the mashed potatoes and the fake-turkey comes out more overcooked than he intended, but they sit close on the couch as they eat and follow it all down with a nice wine and their pies. Newton puts their dishes in the sink, and then he stretches out–catlike–and lays his head in Hermann’s lap. “We should have a New Year Eve’s party,” Newton says, as Hermann runs his fingers through his hair. Newton hasn’t put product in it today, so it’s clean and soft to the touch. And long, left untrimmed since the summer. It’s curling at the ends.

“Mm?” Hermann says.

“The start of the first totally kaiju-free year,” Newton says. “Deserves a party.” Hermann doesn’t think they have nearly enough friends, or indeed know nearly enough people, to constitute an entire party, but he expects Newton means a party for merely the two of them. He wouldn’t mind that. Newton’s eyes drift shut. “That feels nice,” he says. Hermann kisses his forehead. Newton drags his fingertips lazily over the front of Hermann’s cardigan. “Dinner okay?”

“It was perfect,” Hermann says.

Newton opens his eyes and grins. “Liar. The turkey was awful.”

Hermann grins back. “It was.”

“We’ll do pizza next year,” Newton promises.

Next year. The future. Their futures, guaranteed to exist, and exist in conjunction at that. Together. They’re together. “Newton,” Hermann says, a thought suddenly dawning on him. It could be Newton’s thought, for all he knows–they tend to  _bleed_  into each other these days, after their drift–but Hermann finds he doesn’t mind entertaining it in the slightest. “Would you like to get married?”

Newton’s smile widens. It’s lovely. “Sure.” He traces one of Hermann’s cardigan buttons. “Why not?”

“Alright,” Hermann says, happily. After a few minutes, he adds “Pizza sounds nice.”


	92. premature ejaculation + experienced hermann (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> a God Tier concept would be a not necessarily inexperienced Newt blowing his load way too early bc he’s shocked by how much of a Dirty Bastard™️ Hermann is (we all know it to be true)

“I assume you’ve done this before?” Hermann says.

“Of course,” Newt says, staring at Hermann’s ass, as Hermann smiles real coy over his shoulder. “Yes. Absolutely.” Hermann cants his hips up, still smiling, and slowly parts his thighs; Newt can see his bollocks hanging low between them, his pretty, flushed cock. Newt swallows. He places a shaky hand on Hermann’s bare back and ghosts it carefully down his spine. “Yeah. Uh.”

“You’re not exactly inspiring much confidence,” Hermann teases, eyes twinkling, and Newt blushes and pulls his hand away.

Hermann is consistently surprising Newt these days, with the knowledge he likes Newt, for one, enough to drift with him to save the world, that he’s an awesome kisser, for another, that he’s down to bang Newt, that he’s not the sort of uptight repressed virgin Newt always assumed he was (that he’s bagged more dudes than Newt could possibly dream of)–and now with insisting  _Newt_ take control for their first time. Their First Time. And Newt’s down, obviously, Newt’s fucking  _down_ , he’d have sex with Hermann in any single conceivable possible way, but Hermann’s so into ordering Newt around (clean this mess up, Newton, shut up, Newton, turn that down, Newton) that he assumed (when Newt would indulge himself in furious masturbatory fantasies) it would extend to the bedroom too, that their capital f capital t First Time would result in Hermann manhandling him onto a bed and having his way with him (spread your legs, Newton, tell me how it feels, Newton, say my name, Newton).

But there was no manhandling, no one having their way with anyone. Hermann–nose bloody, eye red, breath  _very_ stale–informed Newt in no uncertain terms that he was in love with him, and would like nothing more than to have sex with him as soon as possible, and Newt went from  _thrilled_  (Hermann loved him! Hermann wanted to bang!) to  _panicked_  (oh, God, Hermann loved him and wanted to bang, Newt is gonna screw this up) in the thirty minutes it took to neck a little in a corner of Loccent, half-drag each other to Newt’s bunk, and for Hermann to immediately undress Newt and drop the bombshell that he wanted Newt inside of him.

He reiterates the sentiment now. “Newton,” he murmurs, and reaches back to slide Newt’s hand down to cup his ass, “there’s no need to be nervous.” He massages himself via Newt. It’s hot. It’s really hot. Hermann has a nice ass. It’s small and flat, but it’s very, very cute.

Here’s where Hermann’s wrong, though: there  _is_ a need to be nervous, but not for the reason Newt kinda thinks Hermann thinks. He doesn’t think he’s gonna hurt Hermann, or that Hermann doesn’t really want it, but he  _is_ pretty sure the second he puts his very, very hard dick in Hermann’s–cute–butt he’s gonna absolutely blow his load. No doubt about it. He might get one or two thrusts in there if he’s lucky, but it the end result is guaranteed to be embarrassing. There’s no way Newt’s admitting that, though, so he laughs instead, high-pitched, and lets Hermann believe he’s just too overcome with love or something to begin. “I know!” he says. “You’re–you’re just really sexy, you know?”

Hermann  _is_  really sexy, between the dark eyelashes, the dark hair, the perfect bone structure everywhere, the pretty brown eyes. Hermann blinks those eyes coquettishly now. “Mm,” he says. “I’ve been told.”

Newt thinks he might get a little bit harder, if it’s at all possible. “Fuck,” he groans, “Jesus, dude, I really wanna fuck you, like,  _bad_.”

“Go on, then,” Hermann says.

Newt finds his bottle of lube that rolled under the bed the last time he jerked off and goes to town on Hermann with fingers, opening him up as quickly and efficiently as possible. He’s gotta be quick and efficient, because if he dwells too long on hot tight and hot Hermann feels around just  _that_ , he starts to get overwhelmed again. “Oh,  _yes_ , Newton,” Hermann moans, pushing back at Newt’s hand, “you have such lovely, gorgeous, thick fingers–”

“ _Jesus_ , dude,” Newt repeats, and starts fucking Hermann with them vigorously. “Fuck–”

Hermann’s back arches, and his thighs tremble, and Newt sees precome smear the sheets, and Hermann tosses his head back and forth and moans again and again. “Harder,” he says, “go  _harder_ , Newton.”

Newt does, until his wrist aches, until the only things he hears are Hermann’s low whimpers and the slickness of lube on skin, until he’s so hard he’s light-headed and having difficult keeping his eyes open. And then Hermann starts  _talking_ , and Newt thinks he might be right about the ordering-him-around thing after all. “Newton,” Hermann breathes into his pillow, as Newt twists his fingers, “Newton, I want you to fuck me _,_ I want you in me–”

“Wow,” Newt squeaks, and his fingers stutter to a halt.

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann growls.

Newt tears off his boxers, half-delirious with arousal, and digs his nails into Hermann’s hips as he slides into him. Hermann’s as hot and tight around him now as he was Newt’s fingers, and it’s  _too much_ , and then Hermann growls low again, a  _fuck me,_  and it’s curtains for Newt.

“Oh, shit,” Newt says, not even managing to get his dick all the way in Hermann before he’s blowing it with a loud grunt, and he manages a few pitiful, messy, slick thrusts back in through his own jizz, “oh,  _shit_ , fuck, Hermann–!”

Newt pulls out when he finishes and collapses next to Hermann, wheezing and bright red and mortified, and Hermann twists around to give him a disappointed look. “ _Have_ you done this before?” he says.

Newt shuts his eyes. “Gimme five minutes,” he pants. “Maybe ten. Then I can–” the thought of doing his own sloppy seconds in Hermann is  _kinda hot_ , “–yeah.”

Hermann snickers quietly.


	93. hermann romanticizing newt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> This is the anon from before I loved the fic you wrote about Hermann romanticising Newt, it was so cute!!! That being said could I also get a. goofier version pls :)

Newt’s usually pretty messy, from his bedroom to his handwriting to his work ethic to his entire general aura, but there are varying levels of the kind of mess he’ll accept when it comes to his clothing. Little kaiju splatters on his shirt=totally cool, to be expected, Newt can deal with that. Dirt, sweat, blood (last one unfortunately more common than Newt would like), cool. Coffee? He draws the line at coffee stains. He’ll smell like sweat and he’ll smell like viscera, but he refuses to smell like stale coffee. Brings back too many memories of grad school.

He explains all this to Hermann as he strips out of his shirt, which is freshly stained with coffee as a result of a tragic run-in with a chair.

Hermann doesn’t seem to get it. “So you’re just going to walk around shirtless?”

Newt tosses both his tie and the stained shirt onto his desk. “No,” he says. “I’m still in an undershirt, aren’t I?” He holds out his arms to model it; it’s a little small and pretty tight over his stomach and pecs, and it’s also  _really_ dirty, but, you know, it’s a shirt.

Hermann gives him a look that’s indiscernible.

“What’s wrong?” Newt says. “Afraid I’ll be too  _distracting_?” He flexes one of his flabby (Newt doesn’t have the time to work out much anymore, okay) biceps, then the other, and winks.

Hermann turns away very quickly. “Wear gloves, at least,” he says, staring directly at his chalkboard, unmoving.

* * *

“It’s free,” Newt says.

“It’s garbage,” Hermann says.

“It’s a whole piece of cake,” Newt says. “It’s totally fine.”

“It was in the garbage. You got it from the garbage.”

“Okay,” Newt says, and holds up his finger, “that’s true. But it’s  _free_.”

“All the food here is free,” Hermann says, gesturing broadly to the mess hall with his soup spoon. “There are three more pieces of cake over there that weren’t in the garbage that you could be eating right now. For free.”

“Have you considered that I  _want_ the garbage cake?” Newt says. He shoves his fork into the garbage cake. “It’s a perfectly good piece of cake and it shouldn’t have been thrown out.” Newt is a very firm believer in the five second rule, and that it definitely applies to trashcans, too. “I’m recycling, Hermann. I’m saving the planet.”

“Were it that simple,” Hermann says. Newt shovels a bit of cake into his mouth, and Hermann watches him swallow in morbid fascination. An odd sort of soft fondness spreads across his face. “You’re disgusting,” he says. “And ridiculous.”

“I sure am,” Newt says. “Do you want the rest of your sandwich?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I drop it on the floor first?” Hermann says, but slides the plate over.

* * *

The K-Science Division almost never gets invited to anything–bachelor parties, birthday parties, nights on the town–probably because they’re kind of weird and always smell funny and argue whenever they’re in a social setting, but someone  _finally_ slipped up and accidentally CC’d the both of them in an email chain for  _Eric’s 40th!_. Newt has no fucking idea who Eric is, and a quick conference with Hermann confirms he doesn’t either, but Eric’s friends apparently rented out a private room in a karaoke bar and are offering to cover the tab of all the party guests so hell if Newt’s not taking advantage of it. Hermann, surprisingly, takes little convincing to go along with Newt’s plan.

“We  _were_ invited,” he says.

“Exactly!” Newt says. He expects Hermann needs the drink. “There’s the spirit. We’ll just buy him a gift card or a bottle of wine or something and we’re even.”

They don’t end up getting either of those things, but Newt finds an unused PPDC mug under the lab sink and he and Hermann steal some cookies from the mess hall to shove in it, which is good enough. They figure out who Eric is pretty quickly (he’s wearing an inflatable crown and a feather boa, and also he’s sitting under a large banner that says  _Happy Birthday Eric!_ ) and he only looks mildly confused when Newt thanks him profusely for the invite and hands over the mug with a hard pat on the back, and also could you point him and Hermann–you remember Hermann, obviously, Eric–to the bar? Thanks, cool, cool.

(“Who are those guys?” they hear Eric say as they scurry off in the direction he pointed them in, and Newt decides he and Hermann better drink fast before Eric’s friends wise up there’s been a mistake.)

So, Newt gets a little hammered, and Hermann gets a little hammered, and they manage to go a whole hour without snapping at each other, and Newt’s feeling so good he decides to test out the karaoke machine. Hermann declines a duet, but he watches Newt with wide, shining eyes as Newt stumbles around onstage and slurs the lyrics of a song he can’t even remember the name of, and he’s the only one in the room that applauds when Newt’s done. “You were magnificent,” Hermann declares, when Newt trips his way back down to the table. “Bravo, Newton. Wasn’t he wonderful?”

Eric and Company say nothing.

Newt takes the seat next to Hermann, and Hermann still looks at him with those huge eyes and an equally huge smile. “You’re so  _talented_ ,” Hermann breathes, like Newt was some sort of hot headlining act and not a short, sweaty, screeching drunk dude who tripped over the microphone cord twice. Newt’s not sober, but he’s aware enough to know that he’s a pretty shitty singer even when he  _is_ , so he’s not sure what Hermann’s going on about. But it’s nice to have Hermann compliment him. It’s really nice.

“Ha! Thanks!” Newt says. He reaches out to grab his strawberry daiquiri, but  Hermann grabs his hands instead.

“Newton,” he says. He looks very serious. “Newton.” He sways. Newt wonders if he’s gonna be sick. And then Hermann leans in and plants a very messy kiss on his cheek.

“ _Hermann_?” Newt says, mouth dropping open.

Unfortunately, they’re interrupted by one of Eric’s friends, who seems to have finally realized Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb were invited by mistake and have wracked up a  _considerable_ tab, and they’re promptly ejected from the bar. Newt has enough presence of mind to call them a ride home (it’s  _weird_ being the responsible one), and Hermann clings to Newt’s side and leans on him as they wait at the curb for it. “Got everything?” Newt says. Hermann’s in his coat and he’s got his cane, and a quick pat of Hermann’s pocket confirms he has his wallet, too.

“Mmhmm,” Hermann says. He nuzzles Newt’s chest.

Newt can’t stop thinking about the kiss. “Hey, Hermann?”

Hermann blinks sleepily at him. Another time, Newt decides, when they’re sober. He’ll ask Hermann about it then. Maybe they’ll kiss for real after that.

“Nothing,” Newt says, and wraps his arm around Hermann.


	94. letters era: flirty newt, oblivious hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hi! This is my prompt: could you write something ispired by that chat you've posted (hermann and newts Passionate And Fascinating Correspondence), where H and N are penpals (but phones are faster sooo) and N is tired that H doesn't understand he's flirting with him and decides to take direct action, while H is just bleeding from his nose because he totally loves N back?

Newton was the one to suggest they upgrade from letters to emails all those months ago. Not because he didn’t love the medium, he assured Hermann– _it makes me feel like I’m some sort of romantic hero,_  he explained once, and Hermann wasn’t quite sure how to take that–but because he was tired of waiting over a week for a response. Their correspondence was not time-sensitive back then, not by any means, and it’s not now, but Hermann understood his impatience. The days between sending a letter off and receiving one in return were exciting, and they gave Hermann something to look forward to when–exhausted, tense–he’d return home from working at the university or alongside his father. But they were also  _long_ , and often Newton would be delayed in responding, or Hermann would be delayed in responding, or the postal service would be delayed in delivering, and–once–they went nearly an entire month without hearing from each other when Newton moved house.

That was the tipping point, actually. In Newton’s letter after that month, he finally signed off with both his ( _personal ;)_ , he made a point to clarify) email and phone number.  _Text anytime_ , he said.

Hermann did not text, but he emailed, and he continued to not text until Newton emailed his phone number once more with  _dude seriously just text me it’s so much easier_.

They still send letters, of course. They reserve those for discussing research, or more official,  _professional_ things. They use email for attaching links or documents, or sending articles they want the other’s opinion on. Text, for everything else. They grow to carry a good three conversations at once: about the weather, about Newton’s latest research, about a new film Hermann saw, about their jobs or their students or their childhoods.

Hermann is not sure under which category this conversation falls.

_r u seeing anyone?_

Newton’s never asked him about his love life before. Hermann’s never asked Newton about his. He knows Newton dates, and more specifically dates  _men_ , and he knows Newton knows the same for him, but the specifics have never come up. Hermann waits a little bit before he responds.

**_i’m not, no._ **

_cool_ , Newton responds almost instantly.  _neither am i_

And then Newton changes the subject.

 

Hermann’s forgotten about it by the time Newton texts him a few weeks later about some chest tattoo he’s gotten colored in. Newton’s very excited about it, as  _it looks awesome!,_ apparently, and he clearly wants to send Hermann a picture, so (even if he cannot bring himself to  _fully_ approve of the subject matter) Hermann gives in and asks for one.

Newton’s picture is a full-body shot taken in a large, floor-length mirror, and Hermann can certainly see the tattoo. He can see a  _lot_  of other things, too. Newton’s stripped down to nothing but his boxers, his glasses, and a pair of rainbow socks ( _just got out of bed :P_ his caption explains), exposing his strong, freckled arms (where tattoo lineart creeps down), his hairy legs, the little bit of pudge of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down to his waistband.

The longer Hermann looks at it, the stranger he feels, the warmer he gets under the collar. Newton’s sent him selfies before, of course, and he has plenty of photographs of himself posted online, so Hermann already knew Newton was nice to look at–wavy brown hair, green-hazel eyes, freckles–but this is new. This is…well, Hermann feels  _indecent_ ogling Newton’s body like this, when he’s meant to be ogling nothing but the tattoo. Because he is ogling. He can’t help himself. Newton is not just nice to look at. Newton is  _wonderful_  to look at. 

_like it? ;)_

Hermann exits out of the picture quickly.  ** _Yes, very much. It’s a lovely piece_.**

He realizes, after sending the message, that he doesn’t remotely recall what the tattoo looked like, but he can picture the soft lines of Newton’s body in perfect detail.

 

After that, Newton begins sending Hermann pictures of himself for any and all occasions. A new pair of glasses (Newt sticking his tongue out,  _like them?_ ); Newton home sick (shirtless again, hair tousled, giving the camera a thumbs up,  _could rly use someone to take care of me rn_ ); Newton dressed up for what Hermann assumes is a night out (eyeliner, tight jeans, a low-cut top that exposes his new tattoo,  _hot or too much???_ ); Newton, sunlight beating down on him as he drinks an iced coffee (sweat on his brow, winking, lips pink around the tip of the straw,  _so thirsty!_ )

Hermann can’t imagine what Newton means by them for the life of him.

He saves every last one.

(Especially those last two.)


	95. sexy roleplay (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Sometimes Newmann like to roleplay that Hermann is a proper Victorian gentleman and Newt is a sweet-talking rentboy from America who teaches Hermann to give in to his desires. "See? Isn't this nice, honey? And you deserve it. A big, beautiful cock like yours deserves all the pleasure in the world." "Must you -- OH! -- be so crass?" "Of course, pretty boy. I tried being subtle, but you just weren't getting it." (Newt likes to pretend to "~corrupt~" Hermann and his virtue.)

Early on into their relationship, Hermann learned that Newton was  _incredibly_ fond of roleplay in bed. Any kind of roleplay. Hermann as a stern professor and Newton as his quote-unquote loosestudent, elaborate fantasies ripped straight from Newton’s  _Star Trek_ erotica, once even pretending to be each other. Hermann gets as much out of it as Newton does, after all, so he can’t complain, even if, on this occasion, he’s a bit more dressed up than he’d like to be. Hermann blames Newton’s sudden love of decades-old BBC miniseries.

“Don’t be so shy, handsome,” Newton purrs in his ear. He pulls Hermann’s hand back to cup his ass, Hermann’s fingers brushing where Newton’s slowly rocking on his prick, and Hermann groans. “How’s that? You enjoying yourself?”

Hermann’s stifling hot in the costume Newton picked out for him–thick tartan trousers, a waistcoat, a little cravat–and he’s only getting hotter, with Newton pressed so close and squeezing so tight around him. He had a ridiculous top hat, too, and a thick purple greatcoat, but Newton had seen to removing the coat and tossing it onto a chair (along with his cane) the instant he stepped into the bedroom and re-purposing the hat for his own means.

(“You’re a handsome thing,” Newton said, draping himself over Hermann’s front. He was in nothing but thin, white, vintage-looking undergarments, trimmed with lace Hermann was certain wasn’t standard for men of the period, and Hermann could smell perfume. Newton grabbed Hermann’s hat and angled it atop his own head. “What do you need to  _pay_ for this for?”

Hermann remembered the script: he was an upstanding, and overworked, gentleman, Newton was the American abroad covering his expenses through any means necessary. That did not mean Hermann felt any less foolish. “Well,” Hermann stammered, “you see, I’ve never–”

Newton kissed at his neck, crept a hand down his trousers. “Never hired someone before?”

“Never laid with someone before,” Hermann confessed, and Newton laughed and fluttered his eyelashes and took Hermann by the hand.

“Let me show you a good time,” Newton said. “I’ll even give you a discount.”)

“Hm?” Newton says.

“I am,” Hermann moans, and Newton laughs again, strained though it is, and works himself more quickly up and down on Hermann.

“Nice big cock like yours,” Newton says, “never even being  _touched_ before. It’s a tragedy, Dr. Gottlieb.” He kisses the corner of Hermann’s mouth. Hermann expects he’s getting a thrill out of the thought–claiming Hermann’s virginity, corrupting his innocence.

Hermann moans again and squeezes Newton’s ass; Newton whimpers and presses his face to Hermann’s neck. “So crass,” Hermann wheezes. “So terribly–”

Newton leans back and runs a hand down Hermann’s still-clothed chest. “I had to be,” he says, “or you wouldn’t get the picture, honey. I  _love_ how big you feel in my–”

Hermann comes rather suddenly. Newton blinks at him, slowing his hips.

“Ah,” Hermann says, bright red, role forgotten. “Sorry, Newton.”

Newton dissolves into giggles, his own orgasm seemingly forgotten. “Aw, Hermann,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d get so wound up about this.” He settles the top hat back on Hermann’s head with a kiss to his cheek, then rocks his hips down around Hermann’s softened, and quite sensitive, prick.

“ _Ah_!” Hermann repeats, though in a distinctly different cadence. His eyes sting a bit. Notfrom pain.

“The grand finale,” Newton says, “was gonna be me asking you to take me away from this  _horrible_ place. Because,  _uh_ , I’m madly in love with you. Pretty Woman by Dickens.” Newton grinds down with a whine, desperate for the stimulation on his prostate. “Dude. Use one of your sexy fingers.”

“I’ve never seen Pretty Woman,” Hermann says.

“Her _mann_ ,” Newton groans. “Fingers. Fuck me, honey.”

Hermann has mercy. He slips of out his husband and lays him back on the bedsheets, then replaces his prick with three of his fingers. Newton’s hot and  _slick_ , from both lube and Hermann’s ejaculate, and if Hermann were a younger man he might get it up again from the feeling of him alone. As it is, he–in a warm, post-orgasm haze–just furiously finger-fucks Newton until he grazes the perfect spot, and Newton–hand sliding over himself just as furiously–spills over his own chest with a deep, satisfied grunt.

(“You’re the best,” Newton says later, once Hermann cleans him off “You can totally pick the scenario next time.”)


	96. newt comforting hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> HEADCANON/PROMPT TIME. Like, Newton has to have been the person to find Hermann staring blankly at his chalkboard after predicting the double and triple events. Newton would see Hermann wide-eyed and white-faced and drop everything the second he walked back into the lab to rush over to him because he's terrified that he's about to collapse or something.

“Here,” Newton is saying, “here, Hermann, sit down, here–”

Newton sounds far-off, like he’s speaking from another room. Distantly, Hermann is aware of Newton’s hand on the small of Hermann’s back, that he’s ushering Hermann across the room, that he’s easing Hermann’s cane out of his white-knuckle grip and helping Hermann down onto the lab couch. Newton places a hand on Hermann’s shoulder and squeezes tentatively. “Hermann,” he says, “you want some water? You want–”

Hermann’s legs are trembling. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

Newton disappears from view, and comes back a few moments later with a chipped coffee mug. He hands it to Hermann. The water’s lukewarm, and it tastes vaguely of stale coffee. The mug cannot have been washed well. Newton watches him drink it all, and then he takes the mug from Hermann and carefully sets it down. “Hermann,” Newton repeats. He’s squatting in front of Hermann. “Talk to me, dude.”

Hermann swallows thickly. He works his jaw a few times. “I predicted a double event,” he says.

Newton sits back on his heels. He laughs. 

Hermann does not laugh.

Newton’s grin fades. “Seriously?” he says.

Hermann nods. He wonders how Newton found him when he came into the lab. Frozen in place at the board, he assumes, chalk in hand, staring at the final line of his newly completed equation and wondering how in  _God’s_ name he’s meant to bear the news of certain death to a base full of people. To a city full of people. Because a double event is unheard of. It’s unprecedented. They can’t possibly–how are they  _meant_ to– “I don’t know what–” Hermann says. “I–Newton.”

Newton is not mocking him. Newton is not picking a fight with him. Newton is not saying he’s wrong. Newton takes Hermann’s hands in his, very gently, and rubs his thumbs over Hermann’s knuckles. It’s all very odd; usually,  _Hermann_  is the one talking  _Newton_ down from bad spells, the one forcing water and Advil on Newton and making him  _breathe_. Newton handles the reverse surprisingly skillfully. “Dude. Calm down, okay?” he says. “Please calm down.”

How strange it is, the things you come to understand about yourself at the end of the world. About others. About Newton, in Hermann’s situation, particularly in relation to himself. Newton, his rival, his oldest friend, his equal in every sense. Newton, obnoxious, intelligent, charming. Handsome. Newton is very handsome. Newton continues to rub Hermann’s knuckles, absolutely silent. 

Hermann is in love with him. He’s entertained the notion before, laying awake at night or watching Newton work in the lab or reading over their old letters, but now–in the face of Newton’s kindness, in knowing that they’re doomed, in knowing they won’t have a future even if Hermann wants it–he’s certain of it. He reels Newton in by the wrists and kisses him once, very chastely, desperate for this little bit of intimacy. Newton doesn’t even have the decency to act surprised.

“Hermann,” he says, and he must see the fear (of rejection) rising behind Hermann’s eyes, because he leans back in and kisses Hermann’s bottom lip, and then his top lip, reassuring and sweet and just as chaste. “Have a littleoptimism, okay? We have jaegers. Jaegers  _you_ coded. We have pilots. We can handle a double event.”

These facts are all true. “Yes,” Hermann sighs. “You’re right.”

“Okay,” Newton says, and squeezes Hermann’s hands.

In a minute, Hermann will rush to fetch Pentecost and relay the information, but for now–still unable to shake off the feeling they won’t have a chance later–Hermann allows himself one more quick kiss from Newton.


	97. shower sex (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Prompt: babe this hotel shower is really slippery and has high sides I don’t want you to get hurt so I should probably shower with you uwu

“You’re always  _so_ thoughtful, Newton,” Hermann says. “Such a dear. And so  _strong_. So–”

“Uh-huh,” Newt grunts, hoisting Hermann up a little bit higher. It’s hard to get a good grip on him–the shower walls are slick with water, and so are they–but Newt finds that if he braces Hermann’s back against the wall he can hold his thighs and rock up into him with no problem. Hermann’s head falls back each time he takes Newt in all the way, soft gasps getting higher and higher, and he digs his nails in deeper to Newt’s shoulders. “Just, uh, doing my job. Top notch husband.”

They’re out of town for the weekend; some prestigious conference offered to host them both and put them up at a fancy hotel, but the shower here is the least disability-friendly thing Newt’s seen in his entire life (tall sides, no bar to grip,  _way_ too slippery), so Newt chivalrously declared that he would shower  _with_ Hermann just so both of their minds are at ease. Hermann was thrilled to accept. Very thrilled.

(“I am utterly  _shocked_ by this turn of events,” Hermann deadpanned when Newt started feeling him up two minutes into the shower, and then produced a little travel bottle of lube from where he stashed it behind the shampoo.)

Newt knows Hermann likes being manhandled a bit, too, like now. He likes when Newt scoops him up in his arms and carries him to bed, he likes when Newt pulls him into his lap to make out, he likes when Newt pins his wrists over his head and goes to town on him–and he likes running his hands over Newt’s arms and telling him how  _strong_ and  _sturdy_ he is, how gorgeous. (“My gorgeous Newton,” he always murmurs when they make love, running his hands down Newt’s chest.)

Newt grazes deep within him, and Hermann’s whole body starts trembling. “Newton,” Hermann moans, “oh, yes, Newton,  _yes_ –” He curls his right leg around Newt’s waist, rakes his nails down Newt’s back, gazes at him with hooded eyes and mouth half-open. Hermann is sexy as  _hell_ when he gets like this–too carried away with how good he feels, with how good Newt’s fucking him. Because that’s all Newt wants to do: he wants to make Hermann feel good, he wants to fuck Hermann good, he wants Hermann safe and happy and loved and well seen-to at all times.

“How’s that?” Newt says, speeding up as fast as he can go without Hermann slipping. “How’s that?” he repeats, and grinds up, and Hermann trembles again. “That good, Hermann?”

Steam fogs the air, and Hermann’s hair is plastered to his forehead and his face is bright red, and he scratches at Newt’s wet back and gasps  _ah, ah, ah_ and squeezes around him. The tension in Newt’s gut coils tighter,  _tighter_ , and he presses his face to Hermann’s neck and curses. “I want to marry you, like, fifty more times, dude,” he groans. “Fuck.”

“You old romantic,” Hermann manages to breathe out, then kicks his heel against Newt’s ass. “ _Faster_ , Newton.”


	98. marriage proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Headcanon or prompt that Newt is planning on proposing to Hermann but keeps getting cold feet and one time when he's drunk he keeps referring to Hermann as his husband.

“I don’t know why you wanted to go out together if you were just going to immediately drink yourself silly,” Hermann says, crossly. “You’re not exactly stimulating company right now.” Next to him, Newton sways in his seat, hand still clasped around his pint of lukewarm, overpriced beer. Hermann can’t remember which one Newton’s on. He knows that  _he’s_ still on his first.

“I didn’t drink myself silly,” Newton says. He sways again, nearly knocking the beer over into Hermann’s lap, but Hermann’s reflexes–honed from years of batting away bits of sterilized kaiju Newton would throw at him in the lab–are fast enough that he’s able to catch it without causalities. Newton winces, then looks at Hermann. “Oh, God, I did, didn’t I? I was just so  _nervous,_ and…” He slumps sadly in his seat.

He looks pitiful enough that Hermann can’t be mad at him, though he can’t figure out for the life of him what Newton means by being  _nervous._ It’s just dinner. Their usual once-a-month night out. The establishment is far nicer than where they usually go, so perhaps that’s what Newton means. Hermann slides Newton his own glass of water. “Here, love,” he says, soothingly, “drink, or you’ll have a nasty hangover.”

Newton smiles at him, eyes big and sweet. “You’re the best husband ever,” he says, and downs the water. It’s convenient timing–he misses how Hermann’s eyes widen, how his mouth drops open, how he almost drops Newton’s beer again.

“Husband?” Hermann says.

Newton doesn’t seem to notice that anything is amiss, or that he’s said anything questionable; he sets the empty water glass down and scoots along the booth to cuddle in against Hermann. “Mm-hmm,” Newton says. “The best.”

Newton looks so content that Hermann doesn’t quite know how to proceed to break the news to him that they  _aren’t married_. Gently, of course, but… “Newton,” he says. “Newton, darling, we aren’t–”

Their waiter returns with their entrees, and Newton turns his wobbly smile on him instead. “You got the macaroni and cheese, right?” their waiter says, setting Newton’s plate in front of him (because, through it all, Newton still has the diet of an undergraduate student), and then turns to Hermann, “and you–”

“My husband,” Newton says, and Hermann goes beet-red, “got the gluten-free pasta.” Newton swings his arm over Hermann’s shoulder. “He’s allergic to gluten,” he adds.

“Cool,” the waiter says.

My  _husband_. Hermann could get used to being called that. Very, very used to that. But he’s not (not yet, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of his mind), and it feels disingenuous, somehow, to let Newton believe it, drunk as he may be. “Newton,” Hermann says, once their waiter’s gone and Newton is attempting, and failing, to stab his fork into Hermann’s pasta. “We aren’t married.”

Newton stares at him for a few long moments, uncomprehending, and then laughs. “Oh, right!” he says. He starts digging around in his pocket. “We’re not. Not yet. I forgot that I…” To Hermann’s utter shock, Newton pulls out a  _ring_ , simple and silver and beautiful, and presents it to Hermann with a flourish. “Here.”

“Newton?” Hermann squeaks.

Newton beams at him. “You wanna get hitched?” he says. “I had a whole big speech planned, you know, really romantic shit about soulmates, but–I was so nervous about it I kinda forgot it all, and–” He smile slips away. “Are you okay?”

Hermann wipes furiously at his eyes. “Oh,  _Newton_ ,” he says, “oh, you ridiculous–” Newton is quickly moving from confusion to  _distress_ , so Hermann nods. “Yes, Newton, yes, of  _course_  I do.”

He helps Newton slip the ring onto his hand–it’s sized perfectly, of course–and then pulls him in for a fierce kiss. “I’m sorry I screwed it up,” Newton says when Hermann lets go of him, looking a little dazed (from the alcohol  _and_ the kiss, Hermann imagines). “I didn’t wanna do it in here, I was gonna–I was gonna take you for a walk, and–”

“This is perfect,” Hermann says, sliding his hand across Newton’s–his fiance’s–cheek, enjoying the way the band looks against Newton’s freckled, pink-flushed skin. He starts to tear up again, unable to help himself. “It’s perfect, Newton.”

“Okay,” Newton says, grinning, still mildly dazed. “I love you.” Hermann cups both of Newton’s cheeks and kisses him again.

* * *

Newton wakes with a loud groan the next morning, and Hermann doesn’t envy the hangover he surely has; Hermann’s been up for nearly an hour, but he hasn’t been able to convince himself to leave the warmth of their bed or Newton’s arms. He hasn’t been able to leave,  _period_ : Newton chose to be the big spoon the night before, and he’s effectively trapped Hermann in a tangle of limbs. “Good morning, love,” Hermann says, rubbing his thumb against the skin of Newton’s forearm.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Newton groans against his neck. Hermann laces the fingers of his left hand with Newton’s, knowing that Newton will be able to feel the engagement ring. Hoping that he will. It takes a few moments to register, and then Newton suddenly stills, very quiet. Then, he exclaims, “Hey, it worked!”


	99. letter era: pining + skype call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I absolutely love your fics and you should never feel bad about posting “too much” (omg the very thought! You’re like a pillar of this fandom). I confess though I adore you’re smut if you want to toss any more of that out there like letter era pining or later sappy in love smut would be lovely! Or just anything you like! We’re blessed to have you!

“ _Isn’t it one am there?_ ” Newton says. “ _You should be asleep, dude!”_  Their connection is poor–Newton’s mouth continues to move a half-second after he finishes speaking and the picture is grainy, but not so much that Hermann can’t make Newton out. Grey t-shirt, messy hair, stubble, glasses reflecting the blue of his computer screen. And a smile. A lovely smile.

“It’s barely midnight,” Hermann says. He’s smiling, too. It’s amazing how giddyNewton makes him feel–how a simple letter, how the simple sight of him can improve even the bleakest of days. “I’m fine. Really.”  He wouldn’t miss this for anything.

Newton adjusts his glasses and runs his hand through his hair. Hermann gets a flash of a strong, tattooed arm. (Newton’s eventual goal, Hermann knows, is for a full sleeve, maybe two.) “ _Sorry I was so late tonight,”_ he says. Hermann waves him off. It’s hardly the first time either of them have been late for their weekly Skype call, and it’ll hardly be the last, and Newton’s already explained himself over text anyway. “ _Finals. I had to extend my office hours_.”

“Mm, I bet,” Hermann says, eyes wandering, distracted. Newton ran his hand through his hair again, and Hermann could think only of how  _soft_ it looks. Newton keeps his hair longer than Hermann’s. Perfect for stroking, Hermann imagines.

“ _Dude_ ,” Newton says. Hermann startles. 

“Ah. Yes?”

Newton laughs. “ _You were totally zoned out. I asked if you got_ _what I sent you.”_

“The CD?”

” _Yeah_!” 

“I did,” Hermann says. “It was–er–it was verygood, Newton.”

Newton sent Hermann his band’s (more of a “band”) latest album along with his last letter, and Hermann truthfully doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Newton can play a staggering amount of instruments and write lyrics wonderfully, though he’s not exactly a skilled singer, and he sends Hermann demos and links to YouTube song covers he’s done all the time. This album was particularly… _unique_ , with all the songs addressed to the same mysterious person who’s evidently captured Newton’s heart.

Hermann doesn’t know what to make of it, because he has the strangest feeling it’s about him. He  _hopes_  it’s about him. 

“ _So you liked it_?” Hermann nods. Newton looks satisfied. “ _Cool, awesome.”_ Newton fidgets.

Should Hermann ask him? Should he–?

Hermann yawns before he can stop himself. Newton adjusts his glasses again, smile going soft.

“ _You should go to bed,”_ he says. “ _You gotta be exhausted. Just call me tomorrow instead.”_

Hermann considers protesting, but he really  _is_ exhausted. “Alright,” he says, rubbing at his eyes and dislodging his glasses. He yawns again. When he opens his eyes, Newton’s propped his elbows on his desk and his chin on his palms and is watching Hermann with that same little smile.

“ _You’re cute when you’re sleepy_ ,” Newton says. Hermann feels warm.  _“’Night, dude.”_

“Goodnight, Newton.”


	100. coitus interruptus (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Nsfw prompt: the nerd boys are doing it in the lab's bathroom/sideroom, and someone walks in the main hall. They can't be seen, but Hermann is still red faced/embarrassed. Newton doenst mind the interruption at all, he just keeps on going.

Recent developments in his relationship with Newton have not led to an end of their conflicts, exactly, but they have changed the way they resolve them. Normally, they’d get into a spat, and Newton would throw entrails on the floor and shout and Hermann would throw chalk and also shout, and then they’d storm off to separate ends of the Shatterdome until they could face each other civilly again. Newton still shouts, and Hermann still shouts, but now, instead of storming off, they–

“Yeah,” Newton says, “yeah, baby, yeah, you feeling good?”

Newton’s pinning him to the lab couch, jeans and boxers around his knees, Hermann’s slacks and briefs bunched up on the floor. Newton’s moving above him, panting harshly against Hermann’s chest, drilling into him so hard that Hermann can scarcely breathe, let alone speak. “Yes!” Hermann gasps, eyes nearly rolling back when the blunt head of Newton’s prick brushes in deep, sending electricity shooting up his spine. 

“Good,” Newton grunts, “yeah, this is awesome, you feel so fucking awesome, Hermann–” He mouths over Hermann’s pectoral, biting at the skin, then straightens up to go harder,  _harder_. Hermann digs his nails into the skin of Newton’s waist and watches him move, half-dazed. Newton is a sight, with his flushed skin, his sweat-damp and chaotic hair, his glasses tossed aside and his teeth digging into his bottom lip in concentration. Completely gorgeous. Hermann squeezes around him, and Newton’s mouth drops open. “ _Oh_ , shit, Hermann–”

“Dr. Geiszler? Dr. Gottlieb?” someone says.

Hermann stares up at Newton with widening eyes. Newton clamps his mouth shut mid-moan. He does not still his hips.

Hermann didn’t hear a knock.

“I have a delivery,” the person continues. “I just need one of you guys to sign for it.”

Newton opens his mouth, presumably to tell them to come back later, and Hermann shakes his head frantically. “ _No_!” he mouths. The couch is off from the main part of the lab in the little break area Newton pulled together after a few months of working there, so they’re blessedly hidden from view, but if the delivery person so much as rounds the corner Newton and Hermann will be on full display. They’ll see the couch, and they’ll see Hermann, nude from the waist down, hips canted up and legs spread obscenely with his right hoisted up over Newton’s shoulder, Newton, taking him hard and fast,  _claiming_ him hard and fast–Hermann squeezes around Newton, instinctively and unintentionally, and his prick jerks against his stomach.

Newton gives a barely audible squeak and stares down at Hermann incredulously.

After a second, he starts driving into Hermann faster. It’s Hermann’s turn to stare in shock, a hot blush blooming across his face. “Newton,” he hisses, “ _what_ –?”

Newton grins and leans over. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he whispers, hot in Hermann’s ear. Newton waits; Hermann says nothing. Newton’s hips pick up speed, and he drags the hand not clenched around Hermann’s leg up and under Hermann’s wrinkling oxford and sweatervest to thumb over Hermann’s nipple. Hermann bites his tongue to keep from moaning.

“Doctors?” the delivery person says.

The head of Newton’s prick brushes Hermann’s prostate again as Newton pinches his nipple, and Hermann chokes on a loud wail, scrabbling helplessly at whatever bits of Newton he can reach.

“You gotta be quiet, dude,” Newton breathes, “or we’ll get caught, you gotta–uh, fuck–”

The idea of being caught (Newton taking him hard and fast, claiming him hard and fast), of someone else knowing what goes on in the lab when the doors are closed, knowing that Newton loves Hermann and takes care of him in any way he could possibly need, is too much. Hermann wraps his hand around his prick and is spilling over his sweater in a second, and Newton swoops in, sealing their mouths together and swallowing Hermann’s cry.

Newton fucks him through his own orgasm–when Newton’s close, regardless of whether he’s doing the fucking or the one being fucked, he makes a series of odd little squeaks and gasps and  _oohs!_ that get increasingly shrill, and he doesn’t bother holding them back even now–and then slumps on Hermann with a satisfied grunt. “Dude left,” he mumbles. “Don’t worry.”

“Mm,” Hermann says. He strokes Newton’s hair idly.

“I don’t think they saw us.” Hermann feels Newton grin again against his neck. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Hermann goes red. “I don’t know  _what_ you mean.”


	101. first date (aquarium date!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> so my girlfriend and I are basically Hermann and Newt and your Newmann fanfic is so good... could you write something short about a newmann first date at an aquarium? we had our first date at one and I’d love to surprise her with a short Drabble. thank you so so much!

Businesses in Hong Kong began re-opening fairly quickly once the end of the world didn’t happen–nightclubs, tourist attractions, restaurants, family-owned shops, most of which had been shut down since 2020 or earlier under the completely reasonable fear of destruction. To Newton’s delight, this included the large aquarium right on the coast. The first weekend neither of them were busy with paperwork, reports, or working on drafting their compilation of wartime research, Newton insisted on taking Hermann out to see it.

“I’ll buy you a ticket,” he said, “and we can get dinner afterwards. It’ll be a whole date!”

A whole date. That was the tipping point, really, for why Hermann gave an impassioned  _yes._ He and Newton had been treading awkwardly around each other since sharing a very passionate and heat-of-the-moment kiss the moment the war clock stopped, and Hermann wasn’t sure where they stood. But  _date._ Surely that implied a romantic element, didn’t it? A bonafide romantic date with Newton. What would he wear? Would Newton expect flowers? Should Hermann offer to cover the cost of dinner? What if he showed up in his best sweater with a bouquet and Newton laughed at him? (That did not seem remotely likely, but Hermann’s anxieties were running rampant and getting wildly away from him.)

Hermann’s suspicions are confirmed the day of the Date, that this  _is_  a fully romantic affair, when Newton picks him up from his bunk and greets him by looping his arms around Hermann’s neck, stretching up on the tips of his boots, and kissing him enthusiastically. “You look cute,” Newton says, tugging at Hermann’s sweater. (He went with the nice one after all; it’s soft and brown, and he bought it in a rare fit of vanity thinking that it’d go well with his eyes.) “I’ve never seen this one before.”

“You look, ah, very,” Newton is in a nice button-up and (questionable) lime green tie covered with pink jellyfish, and he’s skipped the usual product he wears in his hair. “You look,” Hermann stammers a few times, still moderately shocked by the kiss and how  _attractive_ Newton looks, and Newton reels him in and steals another, much slower, one.

“Let’s go,” Newton says, dropping his arms and taking Hermann’s left hand, and Hermann–pink in the face and smiling in a way he’s certain looks silly–laces their fingers together.

Newton pays for the taxi to the aquarium as well as their entry fee (though he does joke about asking after a senior discount for Hermann) and is soon dragging Hermann about excitedly between as many exhibitions as he can. Most of the areas are still shut down, including the actual amusement park, water rides, and ferris wheel (to Newton’s disappointment; “I really wanted to make out at the top,” he told Hermann), but they have a fair number of sea creatures that Newton delights in telling him about–dolphins, sturgeons, sea jellies. Newton’s particularly excited about the sea jellies, and Hermann can understand why. The room they’re displayed in is dark and the tanks are set up in an odd, winding, maze-like way, with neon lighting that gives everything a fluorescent glow. It’s otherworldly.

Newton pushes him up against one of the tanks and kisses him the moment they’re left alone. “I used to know more about these,” he says, tapping at the glass to the right of Hermann’s head. His face is bathed in blue, and it glints off his glasses and makes his freckles pop. Hermann wants very much to kiss him again. “Whole PhD in marine biology, you know. Kinda forgot everything that wasn’t relevant to the giant aliens, but…”

Hermann kisses his neck. “Tell me about some of them. What you can remember.” There are plaques by each noting which jellyfish are in what tank, but Hermann would rather hear it from Newton.

Newton steps away–to Hermann’s disappointment–and nudges Hermann until he turns around and faces the tank. Newton settles his hand on Hermann’s lower back and points at one jellyfish with a top that seems to glitter, like a bunch of strange, ethereal flowers. “Cotylorhiza tuberculata,” he declares. “I always liked these. Got a tattoo of one on my ankle, actually, when I was, like, nineteen. They’re from the Mediterranean.”

“On your ankle?” Hermann says, turning to smile at Newton. He knows Newton’s kaiju tattoos spread far up his arms and down his chest and back, but he never considered Newton had any below them. Or of any different subject matters.

“I got a UFO when I was eighteen on the other one,” Newton says with a little grin. “I’ll show you later.” He taps at the glass again, at a jelly that looks as if it has strange coral growing from it. “Cassiopea andromeda. Also Mediterranean. These little guys are basically flipped. Tentacles and everything point up instead of down.” Newton wraps his arm around Hermann’s waist and leads him to another tank, then points at a nearly-transparent jellyfish with long tendrils. “Box jellyfish,” he says. “They suck.”

“Is that the scientific classification?” Hermann says.

“Sure is,” Newton laughs. He looks nervous for a moment. “Is this boring? I can stop.”

Hermann shakes his head and brushes his lips against Newton’s temple. “Not at all,” he says. “I’m enjoying myself.” Hermann is, really; Newton is terribly attractive in his element, and all the walking about means that Hermann has an excuse to feign weariness and lean on his handsome date instead of his cane. Newton pulls him around to a few more tanks, pointing out as many jellyfish species as he can recognize, and they kiss a little bit more until a security guard looks at them disapprovingly and (giggling helplessly) they hurry off to the cafe. It’s fairly deserted there–businesses may have picked up once more on the Pacific coastlines, but not quite tourism yet–and Newton gets them each bubble tea and they hold hands across the tabletop. It’s easily the best date Hermann’s ever been on. It’s easily the best time he’s ever spent with Newton. It helps that he’s horridly in love with the man.

“I’m going to get you a giant stuffed dolphin in the gift shop,” Newton declares. He chews on a few of the little fruity pearls that came in his bubble tea. (Hermann can’t stand the conflicting consistencies, himself.) “And a bunch of stupid tacky keychains. Hey, do you think there’s a photobooth here? That’d be cool.”

There is a photobooth, and, after they arrange themselves, Newton inserts the money and selects a design with little fish that swim around the frame. He gives Hermann bunny ears in the first photo, a kiss on the cheek in the second one, and after that Hermann grabs his stupid tie and the photos–er–devolve, in content. Newton buys him a stuffed dolphin at the gift shop, as promised, and more keychains than Hermann possibly knows what to do with, and they spend most of their dinner (a small place a bus ride away) in the fashion they had tea: holding hands and making eyes at each other over the table. With considerably more teasing. Newton is  _unfathomably_ terrible with chopsticks, but he insists on feeding Hermann from his plate anyway.

“It’s romantic,” Newton claims, stabbing a shrimp viciously with the end of a chopstick and offering it out to Hermann. He does the same with their dessert.

Newton is a proper gentleman when he drops him back off at his bunk back at the Shatterdome, too, not a single insinuation that he’d like to join Hermann or be invited inside. He just cups the back of Hermann’s neck and kisses Hermann as sweetly as he had when he picked him up. “Want to do this again?” he says, running his fingers up through Hermann’s hair. Hermann goes weak at the knees, and distributes more of his weight on his cane than usual.

“The, ah, aquarium,” Hermann says, “or–?”

“Just this in general,” Newton says quickly. “You know. A date. Dating, each other. Going steady. Being boyfriends. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“Oh! Yes,” Hermann says, heart beating fast, “yes, I’d love to.”

“Cool,” Newton says, dropping his hand from Hermann and beaming. “Cool! Okay! Awesome! Ha!” He starts to back away down the hall, and then stumbles to a halt. “I mean. Goodnight! See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” Hermann says, feeling just as giddy.


	102. chubby newt rights!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thirteenlesbian asked:  
> can i please get some uhhhh. chubby newt cuddling w herms,, bonus points for any winter-y things you wanna throw in,,, thank you very much,,,, (p.s. i love you and your fic and i hope you have a great day!!)

The later months of the year, in Newt’s opinion, are the best, if not just because it’s finally socially acceptance to eat a shit-ton of candy and junk and lie around inside all day. Newt eats a shit-ton of candy and junk all throughout the year, but he and Hermann usually spend their summers travelling or going to the beach (newly kaiju free, which is a plus, because Newt was finally able to actualize his lifelong dream of taking surfing lessons, even if he quit after two days) and Newt works all the calories off. Not October through December, though; he rakes leaves, and he shovels the path to their small townhouse when it snows, and sometimes he and Hermann will go for a walk through the woods, but that’s about it.

Basically, these days he gets some organic insulation in the colder months, especially since rationing isn’t a thing anymore and people are making pies and seasonal Oreos and peppermint mochas and everything again. He’s like a hibernating bear or something. He’s probably hairy enough.

Hermann’s very fond of his hot bod, which is a definite plus–he’s all skinny and bony, even with Newt making sure he doesn’t skip meals anymore, so he usually wraps himself around Newt in their bed or on the couch or when they venture out into the cold like Newt’s his own personal heater. It’s a win-win situation. Hermann’s warm, and Newt gets an armful of handsome husband.

Like now. Hermann’s waiting for him in the living room when Newt gets back, bundled up in a quilt and a cozy sweater on the sofa and looking miserable. He looks from Newt’s white-dusted shoulders, his damp hair, the scarf wrapped twice around his neck, and declares “It’s snowing.”

Newt sets their grocery bags on the foyer floor. “Oh, honey, I love your big genius brain.” He starts unwinding the scarf and shrugging off his leather jacket alongside the bags.

“Hang those up,” Hermann says, struggling to sit up, “don’t–” Newt kicks off his boots and crosses the room to flop at Hermann’s side, leaving the wet, snowy, melting pile behind him. Hermann sniffs, but he doesn’t make Newt get up to take care of it. He’s less lenient on the groceries. “They’ll spoil,” he says.

“Mm, no they won’t,” Newt says, pulling Hermann into his lap and nosing against his neck. “It’s just cookies and boxed mac and cheese.” The cookies are some weird German spiced gingerbread shaped like windmills, and on sale, so Newt bought four packs. He maybe cracked into one of them on the walk home.  

Hermann leans away and looks at him warily. His glasses are jostled sideways. “I told you to get dinner.”

“It is dinner,” Newt says. He tries to kiss Hermann’s cheek, and Hermann makes a face and pushes him away.

“Darling, you’re  _freezing_ ,” Hermann says. “Please.” Newt grins and shoves his hands up Hermann’s sweater, feeling smooth, and most importantly warm, skin, and Hermann shrieks and bats at him. “Newton!”

“Oh, come on,” Newt whines, “my hands are cold.”

Hermann relaxes after a few seconds, and Newt’s pretty sure his kissing all over Hermann’s face and jaw sweetened the deal. He’s warm again in no time. Warmer than Hermann, actually. “It shouldn’t be possible,” Hermann says when Newt voices the thought, but he burrows against Newt’s chest anyway to chase his body heat.

“Insulation,” Newt says. “I’m like a sexy penguin.” 

“Hush,” Hermann says, and he makes a happy little sound when Newt pets his hair. His hands go to Newt’s love handles, which he’s very fond of holding onto while they sleep, or make out, or cuddle, like now. They’ll have dinner in a bit.


	103. secretly built hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If you're not taking requests please ignore this! It's just that I saw a beautiful art from feriowind a while ago and I was wondering if you'd ever consider writing something about secretly beefy Hermann and Newt finding out by accident ? (the idea of Newt, already head over heels for Hermann, finding out his 'secret' and just about being ready to combust because he just never expected Hermann to be so well-built under his grandpa clothes has me dying!)

There’s a loud, persistent knocking at Newt’s door.

Newt’s confused for all of one second–the only person who would ever willingly and  _rarely_ ) seek him out in his bunk is Hermann, but it’s waypast when Hermann would still be working, Newt had almost been asleep–when Hermann’s voice is calling “Newton, open up  _immediately_.” 

Which is just more confusing, but whatever. “One sec,” Newt calls back, hopping out of bed, tugging his pajama bottoms up over his boxers, and switching on his bedside light. Hermann’s knocking gets louder. Newt can’t imagine what he did to incur the wrath of Hermann  _this_ intensely. He shoves his glasses on his face as he fumbles with his lock. “Jesus Christ, Hermann, I said one second–”

He swings the door open.

Hermann stands there, soaking wet, pissed, and totally nude except for a towel wrapped around the lower half of his body.

“Uh,” Newt squeaks.

Hermann pushes past him immediately, cane clacking furiously on Newt’s floor. “I’m locked out of my  _bloody_ room,” he hisses, hoisting his towel–which had begun to slip–up higher.

“Uh,” Newt says again, because this is how half of his sex fantasies start: Hermann shows up at his bunk, half-naked and getting nakeder, sometimes he got caught in a rainstorm and is so  _cold_ he needs Newt to warm him up,  _all_  the time it’s imperative they fall into bed together right that very instant. Hermann doesn’t seem like he’s about to drop his towel anytime soon, though, just stands in the center of Newt’s room, shivering and angry. “Locked out?” Newt says, angling himself strategically so Hermann doesn’t see the front of his sweatpants, which are–well. Naked Hermann took him by surprise.

“I was taking a shower,” Hermann says.

Newt glances from Hermann’s hair, plastered to his forehead, to the drops of water glistening on his chest, to the damp towel he clings to with his free hand. He looks like a pasty Old Spice commercial. “Were you?”

Hermann launches into a long tirade about forgetting his key, and his phone, and a change of clothes, and how the nearly non-existent Shatterdome housing services are closed so he can’t even ask someone to let him into the room until tomorrow, and how he’s cold, and a bunch of other shit, but Newt is very distracted the entire time. Not just because his remaining few brain cells are screaming  _wet naked Hermann! wet naked Hermann!_ but also because Hermann is…well, Hermann’s kinda  _built._ Not bodybuilder built, not jaeger pilot built, but he’s got some  _toned_ arms, a toned chest, some very, very hot pecs, and the lower his towel slips as he gestures angrily with his free hand, the more of an eyeful Newt gets. Does the guy  _lift weights_? Does he do pull-ups? It makes sense, Newt guesses, considering how often he’s seen Hermann bodily pull himself around to compensate for his leg; shimmying up that dumb ladder and working that cane is probably a good–

“Newton!” Hermann suddenly snaps.

“Uh?” Newt says. 

Hermann is red in the face. “I was wondering,” he says, “if you’d be terribly upset if I–er–” He glances at Newt’s tiny dresser.

“Oh!” Newt says, and laughs nervously. “Yeah! Cool! That’s cool! Lemme–” He finally tears his eyes from Hermann’s torso and busies himself in digging through his dresser drawers instead. He finds a pair of sweatpants that might fit Hermann and the biggest t-shirt he has, and he stares at the wall while Hermann pulls them on. He debated giving Hermann a pair of his boxers, but he’s not sure if he would’ve, spiritually, been able to handle the concept of Hermann strutting around in his underwear.

“All good?” Newt says, and when Hermann  _hmphs_ out a yes, he turns back around.

His sweatpants are comically short on Hermann, and the shirt, though loose in the stomach, is–Newt’s mouth goes dry–comically  _tight_ around Hermann’s arms. Newt’s suddenly aware that he’s never once seen Hermann in a short-sleeved shirt, only his ugly grandpa clothes. He’s also suddenly aware that Hermann looks very, very good in his clothing. “Cool,” Newt says, “that’s–uh–looking nice and cozy, dude.”

Hermann narrows his eyes.

“Take the bed,” Newt says. “You can take the bed. I’ll–floor. The floor.”

Newt’s old t-shirt rides up Hermann’s stomach when Hermann gets into Newt’s bed, giving Newt an eyeful of hairless, toned abdomen. Newt lifts his eyes to the ceiling, face burning hot. 

One night. He can do this.


	104. newt romanticizing hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> You're a literal fuckign inspiration babe!! If you're ever in the mood for more prompts, could you do a companion piece to the "Newton is a gremlin" posts where Newton realizes he's romanticizing the hell out of someone who wears tweed and has THAT haircut.

Newt, for all his posturing and desperate attempts to be cool (tattoos, leather jacket, hey call me Newt!), is still no more socially graceful than he was at the tender age of twelve, and certainly no more socially graceful than Hermann. Not that Hermann is more socially graceful than him. They’re sort of at a nice, even tie in terms of incompetence. Newt  _does_ actually makes an effort to talk to new people (unlike Hermann, who lurks in corners and eyes them suspiciously if they’re too friendly) and  _tries_  to do things with co-workers (unlike Hermann, who either miraculously falls ill every time another Shatterdome party rolls around or spends the entire thing attached to Newt’s side and alternating between sarcastic and grumpy) but Newt’s found that after spending more than twenty minutes or so with him most people just…don’t like him. Which is fine. It’s cool. Newt doesn’t really care. Less time spent on making a conscious effort not to put his foot in his mouth and more time spent on fun shit, like getting his hands in kaiju guts and yelling at Hermann.

Apparently the  _Newt is weird and annoying_ memo hasn’t totally reached all Shatterdome personnel, though, and especially not the new guys, because Newt’s got a  _date_ tonight with a handsome jaeger pilot hopeful.

Hermann is all cagey about it, too, when Newt tells him he’ll be skipping their usual dinner together (fucking domestic, aren’t they, and not even remotely dating), and doubly cagey when Newt explains he’s just using the guy for free non-Shatterdome food.

“Yeah, he’s just not my type, you know?” he explains to Hermann. “Too…movie star. Looks like he could bench press me if he wanted to.” Newt’s type is more of the Hermann Gottlieb school of  _disrupt my class again and I’ll be seeing you in my office, Mr. Geiszler._

“So you’re using him?” Hermann says.

“I’ll bring you the leftovers,” Newt tells him with a slap on the back, and then hurries from the lab to get himself spiffed up.

 

Newt’s favorite topics of conversation, much like his favorite activities, include a) his research and b) Hermann, so he decides to lead in with the first when he sits down for his date with The Guy. (Newt’s not sure if he ever actually got his name.) At least he’s encouraged in it: the pilot seems actually interested in what Newt has to say.

“Everyone says you’re some sort of genius,” he says, with a big, dopey smile after Newt delivers a pretty cool mini-lecture on the spleen he’s currently dissecting. “I can see why.”

Newt drops his chopstick in shock and laughs. “Oh, dude, no way,” he says. “ _Hermann’s_ the genius. Dude is magic with those numbers.” He crams as many noodles into his mouth as possible and swallows, eyes watering. “And he’s like, not cocky about it or anything, which is totally–” He shoves more noodles into his mouth to keep from saying what he wants to way, which is  _sexy_. Hermann’s complete lack of an ego  _is_ sexy, though. He’s just so  _earnest_. 

“Hermann?” the guy says, the dopey smile fading. “You mean Dr. Gottlieb?”

Newt remembers to swallow before he speaks. “He’s the coolest fucking guy I’ve ever met,” he says. “Codes anything, predicts attacks–and he’s funny as shit, too, which is a bonus.” Especially when he’s sticking to Newt’s side at those parties.

“ _Coolest_?”

Newt spears a piece of chicken and frowns. “Yeah?”

“Isn’t he–” the guy looks like he’s struggling to laugh. “The haircut, and the–”

Newt goes rigid in his seat. He has no problem calling Hermann  _grandpa_ or maybe, you know, occasionally not totally respecting his research, but the second someone besides Newt does it– “Hermann’s awesome,” he snaps. “Okay?”

The date goes downhill from there.

* * *

Newt is, in fact, aware that he and the general public tend to be at odds when it comes to Hermann. He’s been aware since he and Hermann were nothing more than penpals, and Newt  _maybe_ implied to everyone that Hermann was his long-distance boyfriend because it was easier to explain (and he kind of enjoyed the fantasy). He’d spend hours talking about Hermann to anyone who’d listen (colleagues, bandmates, his  _dad),_ about how  _smart_ Hermann is, how  _amazing,_ how handsome, Hermann’s perfect bone structure, Hermann’s big goofy smile, how he laughs in their Skype calls, how he makes Newt feel like he’s the only other person in the world, and then Newt would flash a picture–sweatervest, frown, granny glasses and all–and be met with instant skepticism. Or confusion. Or, like when Newt finally let his bassist and drummer see the guy Newt’d been writing songs about for months, an awkward laugh.

Doesn’t mean Newt’s wrong, though. (Maybe just a little…blinded by love.)

It would’ve been a bad date regardless.

“No leftovers?” Hermann says, when Newt stalks into the lab the next morning. 

“He was a dick,” Newt says.

“Mm,” Hermann says, and looks very, very satisfied. He pats Newt’s shoulder in consolation before he resumes scribbling away at his chalkboard, and Newt’s heart leaps and his knees go weak the way they always do whenever Hermann shows him the slightest bit of positive attention. 

Stupid Hermann and his stupid perfect everything.


	105. accidentally discovering the other has feelings for them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> hi! i love your fics!! do you think you could write something where newt discovers that hermann has feelings for him by accident? (like he finds out that hermann kept all the letters newt ever sent, or he finds out that hermann turned down a job offer somewhere else so he could stay at the lab with newt, something sappy like that lol)

They’re twenty minutes into their work day when, out of nowhere, Hermann hisses loudly in pain and stumbles over to the lab couch. It’s been raining a lot more than usual, pressure changing, and if Newt’s occasional headaches have gotten worse and more frequent he can only imagine things are screwed up for Hermann too. Newt rips off his gloves and headlamp and hurries to Hermann’s side. “What can I do?” he says, hovering anxiously. “I mean.  _Can_ I do something?”

Hermann massages his leg gingerly. “If you want to help,” he says, “I supposeyou could retrieve my pain medication from my quarters. The, ah, bedside drawer.”

“Bedside drawer,” Newt says, nodding furiously. “Cool. Yeah. Got it.”

“ _Only_ the drawer, Newton,” Hermann says. He narrows his eyes. “Don’t go snooping about in my personal effects.”

“Only the drawer,” Newt says, jogging out the lab door. “On it.”

Newt’s had a spare copy of Hermann’s key for years, and Hermann has one of his–in case one of them is sick or dying or something–but he hasn’t been inside Hermann’s actual room since Hermann had a cold ages ago and Newt was determined to bother him until he got better. It looks almost exactly the same: same boring bedspread, same boring dresser, same complete lack of anything on the walls. Same bedside table that Newt, now, tears apart looking for the meds. There are three drawers, not one like Newt expected, and the bottle isn’t in the top one, and it’s not in the second one, and it’s not–

There’s a stack of letters in the bottom drawer that Newt recognizes very, very intimately, because they’re ones he sent Hermann nearly ten years ago. 

“Huh,” he says.

No envelopes or anything, not tied together with a string, not even neatly organized. They’re just…tossed in there. Newt picks the top one up and is surprised to find that it’s smooth; the lines where it’d been folded are still visible, but they’re faint, just lines, not folds, like Hermann’s been reading it over and over.  _Has_  Hermann been reading it over and over? Newt scans his ancient handwriting. There’s nothing important, no information that Newt could see Hermann needing for any reason, though it does make his chest twist in a funny little way. The letter’s from somewhere in the middle of their correspondence, and Newt’s just…talking about how happy he is to have met Hermann. How happy he is to have Hermann in his life.

Well. Maybe it is something important.

The rest of the stack is similar, all towards the end of their penpal-ship, right up until things went Shitty. Really fucking sappy stuff Newt is embarrassed to even think about having sent Hermann. Newt talks about how much he admires Hermann’s work in one, calls Hermann his best friend in another, thanks Hermann for a birthday present and how thoughtful it was (how thoughtful Hermann is), how dorky-cute Hermann looked in a selfie he sent (Newt actually used the word  _cute_ , how pathetic), how–Newt feels that funny little twist again–excited he is to meet Hermann  _in person_.

That’s the last one, at the very bottom; the last letter Newt ever sent Hermann, too. It’s worn and old, unlike the others, like Hermann’s reread it the most. It’s also the most embarrassing.

 _All I want to do when I see you,_ Newt wrote,  _is run up to you and–_

Newt’s phone buzzes; it’s a text from Hermann.  _Where are you?_

Newt quickly tosses the letters back into the drawer and slams it shut.

The medicine’s actually on top of Hermann’s dresser, it turns out, and Newt would normally give Hermann a hard time about being wrong, but he’s too distracted thinking about those  _fucking_ letters, and why the hell Hermann could be reading them over and over. So he’s quiet when he hands Hermann his medicine, quiet when he gets him a glass of water to wash it down with, quiet when Hermann clears his throat and says, very evenly, “Thank you, Newton.”

Then Newt caves.

“I accidentally found them,” he blurts out.

“Pardon?”

“The letters,” Newt says. “My letters. I found them–I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Your letters,” Hermann echoes. “Your–ah. Oh.” He flushes.

“I was looking for your medication,” Newt says, “and I opened the drawers, and they were just–”

“Newton,” Hermann says, and Newt shuts his mouth. “Please.” He rubs his hand across his face, knocking aside his glasses. “I’m sorry if it made you…uncomfortable. It wasn’t my intention for you to find out. Ever.”

“They’re just letters, dude,” Newt says, not totally sure what Hermann’s talking about. “I just felt bad–what do you mean find out?”

“That I,” Hermann begins. “Er. Well.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Newt says. “Do you–?”

Hermann’s obvious mortification is mounting higher and higher. “Is it not obvious?” he says.

“ _No_!”

“Oh,” Hermann says. “Well. Now you know.”

“Now I–” Newt shakes his head. “God. Hermann. You. Move over so I can kiss you.”


	106. post-first time happy crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> post-coital first time newmann, newt wakes up to find hermann re-reading the letters for the first time, holding them to his chest when he's not scanning the page suspiciously bright-eyed, 'cos he didn't really believe that poetry and promises, at least, are lies, not ever

Newt’s warm, when he wakes up, which is not unwelcome, just…unexpected. Usually, he’s freezing no matter how many blankets he has piled up. Usually, he’s alone. Usually, he’s not in Hermann’s bed (because he  _is_  in Hermann’s bed, he remembers), and usually, he’s not curled with his back to Hermann’s side, and usually, he hasn’t just had amazing, incredible sex with Hermann that was so amazing and incredible he maybe cried a little bit because it was just so  _right_ , but it’s okay because Hermann was definitely crying too.

He’s all ready to be flirty about it–prop himself up with a  _hey, handsome_ , maybe, grope one of Hermann’s sexy strong biceps or kiss him awake or maybe drop a  _round two, hot stuff?_ , but Hermann’s already awake when Newt rolls onto his side to face him. And busy. He’s still shirtless (Hermann’s skinny and bony and  _hot_ , whole lot of perfect skin for Newt to mark up as he pleases, and he did please, so he marked it up plenty) and he’s got this _amazing_ bedhead, but he’s also got his dorky little glasses perched on the end of his nose and he’s reading over something.

They’re letters. Familiar letters. Newt’s letters, actually, from Way Back When, when they still–well–and Newt’s all set to tease Hermann about it (he kept them? he brought them with him to the  _Shatterdome_? he’s reading them  _now_ , when he’s got the real live thing in bed next to him feeling mushy and romantic and raring to go for another round?) when he realizes Hermann is tearing up over them. Legitimately. He’s got this sad little smile on his face, and his eyes are wet, and every so often he wipes at them, every so often he runs his fingers down the page, over words Newt wrote over a decade ago and barely remembers.

“Hermann?” he says, gently.

Hermann startles a little, tucking the letter to his chest protectively. On instinct, it looks like; he relaxes after a moment. “Oh!” he says. “Newton. You’re awake.”

Newt touches the edge of the paper. “Which one is that?”

Hermann looks down at the letter. He smiles that same sad smile. “The very first one you sent,” he says. He brushes his fingers over the top, over the _Dear Dr. Gottlieb_. “I felt so foolish, writing you all those years ago. I was certain you wouldn’t reply.”

 _Dear Dr. Geiszler_ , Newt remembers,  _I’m very much impressed with your body of work_. Hermann’d been quite the flatterer. And he had a goddamn impressive track record of his own: a quick Google search of Newt’s brand-new mysterious not-so-secret admirer revealed that in a few seconds. More importantly, after clicking on  _images_ , it also revealed that Hermann was hot, in a sort of sexy Victorian schoolteacher way, which Newt was into. “Of course I replied,” Newt says. “You were…”

Hermann looks at him, eyes still wet, but so, so warm. Fond. “Yes?”

“You were cute,” Newt says. “You made me feel–special.” Special’s not the right word; wanted, maybe. Interesting. He made Newt feel like someone’s  _equal_ , not just a scrawny little outcast oddball. (But Hermann was very, very cute.)

Hermann shuffles the letters around. He clears his throat. “‘I think you get me more than anyone else in the world,’” he reads. “‘I wish we could–’”

“Oh, God,” Newt says, swatting at him. “That one’s  _embarrassing_.” It’s the sappiest one he sent Hermann by far–talking about how much he values their relationship, how much he wants to be with him in person. But Hermann just smiles, just traces Newt’s signature with his fingertip.

“It’s lovely,” Hermann says. “Truly.” He folds it up, then swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand again. Newt threads their fingers together carefully once he lowers it. “Newton. I never thought–I always hoped–”

Newt kisses his knuckles. “I love you,” he says, because it feels like the time to say it. It’s not the first time; he said it last night, too, as Hermann kissed him and touched him and moved against him, and Hermann beamed at him, disbelieving, and said it too, over and over, breathing it into Newt’s skin and his mouth _._ Now, Hermann beams again, rolls to his side, too, and snakes his arms around Newt’s waist. Their noses bump, letters forgotten and pressed between their chests. Everything is warm and soft. Hermann is warm and soft, and sweet, and handsome, and Newt is hopelessly in love with him. “I always have. Even then.”

Hermann blinks away tears furiously and brushes their lips together. “Newton,” he murmurs. “My dear, darling man.”


	107. happy crying during sex (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Sometimes when Newt is pounding into him or riding him, Hermann will start crying. Not because he's in pain! He's not in pain, it's just that Newt takes such good care of him and he's so beautiful and Hermann loves him so much. Newt understands though. "It's alright, honey, let it out. There we go, good boy. Is that good? Do you feel good, baby?" "Mm-hm!" "Do you want me to keep going?" "Yes please!" "Okay, sweetie. Whatever you want."
> 
> also combining it with this other message i got:
> 
> Anonymous said: I love the idea of Hermann enjoying having Newt manhandle him a little. Hermann just loves how safe and cared for he feels when Newt carries him to bed and pins him down and fuck him good and hard. Newt loves manhandling Hermann because it’s a great excuse to feel up his hot husband. Plus he likes to spoil Hermann. “Stop trying to do the work, babe. You just lie there and look pretty while take care of you, okay?”

Newton is a  _very_  doting husband, the knowledge of which never ceases to surprise Hermann. In Hermann’s defense, there was nothing to suggest it before; Newton was a nightmarish lab partner, and their romantic relationship leading up to Newton’s spontaneous marriage proposal (which occurred one evening as Newton rode him  _very_ enthusiastically, but Hermann supposes he can’t cast judgment, as he obviously accepted it) was only in existence for about a month. But Newton showers Hermann with love, attention, gifts; he cooks him whatever he wants, fusses over him, massages his leg and his back and his shoulders, draws him baths and strokes his hair and wakes him up every morning with kisses and coffee (and, sometimes, blowjobs).

The best part of it all is that Newton seems to  _enjoy_ it, like nothing brings him pleasure so much as making sure Hermann is happy and taken care of. So Hermann lets him dote. Welcomes it, even. Loves it. (Whatever makes Newton happy, after all, almost always ends in Hermann happy as well.) He indulges Newton a little in return: he plays coy, lets Newton pick him up and carry him to bed when he wishes, calls him  _darling_ and  _my love_ and  _my sweet husband_ and watches Newton smile and blush in delight each time. It’s the fastest route to seduction, too. Hermann need only stretch himself out on the living room sofa, flutter his eyelashes, hold out a hand and say  _come here, my love_ , and Newton drops whatever he’s doing and devotes all his attention to him instantly.

Often, Hermann doesn’t even need to do that much.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” Newton breathes in his ear, unbuttoning Hermann’s shirt and dropping it to the floor. He squeezes Hermann’s biceps, his forearms. “You’re gonna feel so good, honey.”

This evening, Hermann merely greeted Newton in the hallway with a lingering kiss, touched his cheek, and told him how  _terribly_ he missed him, and Newton dropped their groceries and scooped Hermann up into his arms and whisked him off to their bedroom declaring that he was going to fuck Hermann so hard the neighbors would complain. Now, Hermann sits on the edge of the bed as Newton kneels in front of him, touching and kissing at his bare skin, running his fingers down Hermann’s chest, rubbing at his trousers, brushing his thumbs over Hermann’s nipples.

(Newton takes such good care of him.)

“What do you need, Hermann?” Newton says. He tugs Hermann’s trousers down and kisses the front of his briefs, mouth hot and wet, and Hermann pets Newton’s soft hair shakily.

“Oh,” Hermann sighs, “oh, Newton,” and he tugs a handful of Newton’s hair as Newton licks a line through the cotton, “that’s perfect, love–”

Newton moves his hand to Hermann’s chest and pushes him to the mattress, then scrambles up to kneel over top him, caging him in. His body’s sturdy, soft, stockier than Hermann’s, and he feels so lovely and  _strong._  “What do you need?” Newton repeats, and rolls his hips down in one slow movement.

Hermann moans. “Will you–” he says, eyes darting to the bottle of lube on the bedside table. He wants what Newton promised in the hallway, in the heat of seduction and arousal. He wants Newton to open him up and hold him down on the bed with his strong, strong arms and fuck him senseless. Newton’s face splits into a happy grin.

 

Newton lays between his legs as he fingers him open slowly, pausing every so often to kiss Hermann’s knee or to draw the head of his cock past his lips and suck to ease the burn of the stretch. He usually talks to Hermann throughout this, usually keeps a running commentary–how tight Hermann feels around him, how hot, how good he’s taking Newton’s fingers, how good Hermann is for him and how good Newton’s going to make him feel in return. It’s no different tonight. “Looking good, hot stuff,” Newton coos, gazing up at him adoringly. “ _Really_ good.” He blows some cool air at him, right between the vee of his fingers as he scissors them, and Hermann’s whole body shivers.

“ _Oh_.”Hermann shuts his eyes and his back arches from the bed. “Oh, Newton,  _please_ –” He spreads his legs wider and grinds on Newton’s fingers, desperate for more, for Newton to go deeper,  _harder_ , but Newton shakes his head and stills his hand.

“Hey,” he says, mock-stern, and presses Hermann back down.

A frustrated groan builds in the back of Hermann’s throat. “Newton, please–”

Newton kisses his knee again. “I’m taking care of you,” he says, soothingly. “Let me do the work. Just lie back, okay?” Hermann sighs, but nods and forces himself to relax. Newton looks satisfied. “You want it harder?” he says. Hermann nods again. Newton starts fucking him with his (wondrously, wondrously thick) fingers again, a little faster this time, and nips at the skin of Hermann’s inner thigh. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he orders. He crooks his index finger, rubbing deep and perfect.

“Now,” Hermann begs, and Newton withdraws his fingers and gets up on his knees. “ _Now_ , Newton.”

Newton tears his jeans and boxers down just enough to cup himself in his lube-slick hand, eyes roving over Hermann’s nude, flushed body. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, Hermann, okay–” He hoists both of Hermann’s legs up and over his shoulders and pushes into him in one sharp little thrust, and Hermann covers his mouth with his hands to keep from shouting.

“No,” Newton pants, “Hermann, honey, I wanna hear you,” and he curls his fingers round both of Hermann’s wrists and pins him to the bed, grinding his hips very slowly as Hermann adjusts. Hermann moans louder, unable to help himself; he  _loves_ when Newton gets rough and manhandles him a bit, when Newton takes control, when Newton makes love to him hard and fast and desperate. “That good?” Newton says, and when Hermann moans again, Newton tightens his hold on Hermann and grinds a little more insistently.

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann says, and Newton takes the hint.

Newton does all things with boundless enthusiasm and energy, and it’s no different when he fucks Hermann. He pistons into him hard, fast, grunting and moaning, til Hermann’s whole body shakes with it, til he’s clutching his fingers at empty air and gasping higher and higher as white-hot pleasure courses down his spine. Newton’s face looms above him, and he’s flushed red and starry-eyed and gorgeous. It’s all so good, and Hermann loves his husband so much it hurts, and he feels hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Panic immediately settles over Newton. He pulls his fingers from Hermann’s wrists as if he’s been burned and his hips stutter to a halt. “Oh, God,” he says, “Hermann, did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Hermann gives a watery laugh. “Darling, no, I’m sorry, I just–” He rubs at his eyes, smiling wide, and laughs again.

Newton relaxes. He leans in and brushes his lips over Hermann’s in a quick, chaste kiss. “It’s okay,” he says, “let it out, Hermann.” He waits, patiently, as Hermann cries for a minute or so–this is not the first time this has happened, nor does Hermann feel remotely embarrassed about it. (Their very first time together, Newton bawled his eyes out for half an hour afterwards he was so pleased.) “Better?” Newton says, when Hermann’s breathing finally evens out. He strokes back some of Hermann’s hair. “You all good, baby?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Newton shifts his hips a little. (He’s still hard; so is Hermann.) “Want me to keep going?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hermann says, and Newton draws Hermann’s wrists up over his head and resumes pounding into him happily.


	108. hermann + long pretty dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Newt always loves to carry Hermann, but especially when Hermann's wearing one of his long pretty dresses, because then Newt gets to pretend that he's a heroic knight and Hermann's a beautiful prince he just rescued.

Hermann’s in a new dress tonight, one that Newt’s never seen before–long and lacy and pale blue, loose and flowing in a way that makes Hermann look like some sort of ethereal, handsome prince. Hermann has plenty of dresses–long, short, with low necklines and high necklines, patterned and plain–but Newt can’t remember one ever affecting him like this before. (Distracting him, making his mouth dry, leaving him unable to tear his eyes away from where one of Hermann’s dainty ankles pokes out from the bottom of the skirt.) Hermann’s not even doing anything, just laid out on the couch and flipping through a book, dorky little glasses perched on his nose, and even that is driving Newt wild.

“New dress?” Newt says, lurking in the hallway between living room and kitchen. He knows it’s a new dress. He would remember seeing Hermann in a dress like that.

Hermann looks up with a smile and smooths his hand over the skirt. “Yes,” he says. “Do you like it?”

Newt clears his throat. “It’s cool,” he says, eyes stuck on that damned ankle. “It’s nice. Uh–”

Hermann sets his book down onto the coffee table and takes off his glasses. He pats the empty couch cushion to his right. “Come here, Newton.”

Newt scrambles to his side. Hermann cups his cheek gently, turning him into a little kiss, and Newt runs his fingers over the delicate lines of the dress. “It’s so soft,” he says, grinning goofily as Hermann nuzzles against his neck. “You look like–I don’t know. I feel like I should be rescuing you from a tower or something.” He pinches a bit of the fabric and rubs it between two fingers. He loves when Hermann dresses up nice, especially when it’s for no one but the two of them.

“You rescuing  _me_?” Hermann scoffs.

“Well, obviously I’m the sexy knight in this scenario,” Newt says. He drags Hermann’s left leg–very carefully–up into his lap, and rubs his thumb in little circles over the ankle he’s been eyeing up all night. 

“Obviously,” Hermann says, and then he yelps loudly, probably because Newt spur-of-the-moment pulls him into his arms and hoists him up, bridal style. “Newton!” he exclaims, scandalized, but he clings tight to Newt and a pleasant pink blush blooms across his cheeks.

“I’m the sexy knight who just saved you from a terrible fate,” Newt says. “You could be grateful.”

Hermann softens after a single second, then tenses up again when Newt takes a step forward (with full intent to carry Hermann into the bedroom so they can properly make out for a bit). “Table, dear, look out for–”

Newt hits his shin against the coffee table  _hard_ and swears, then deposits Hermann unceremoniously back onto the couch so he can rub at his leg and swear some more. “ _Fuck_  me,” he hisses. “Fuck, ow, okay–”

“Careless,” Hermann tsks, and brushes off his skirt.


	109. interns meeting already married newt/herm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vodkaisgone asked:  
> heya, love ur writing! Whwn u have time, could you maybe write something about characters meeting alredy married newmann? Like, new scientists and students being introduced to totally in love but still grumpy Hermann and weirdo Newt. It would be awesome (also greetings from Poland~)

They have interns, now, which is weird–weird that they have the funding for it, weird that there are people who  _want_ to intern, weird that the PPDC thinks that training new interns in kaiju science is a valuable use of resources when the kaiju are most likely  _not coming back–_ but Newt and Hermann have salaries again and they’ve only got a few months left until they officially blow this joint for academia for good, so there’s really no point in either of them questioning the decisions of higher-ups. So they accept the interns. Besides, Newt’s not the one who has to show them around. Somehow Hermann got stuck with that job, and he loves Hermann, really, their spur of the moment wedding was the best decision Newt ever made, but it  _is_ pretty funny to watch him grumble and scowl his way through the lab tour. 

“This is Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann says, and Newt tosses down his scalpel, pulls out an earbud, and waves at the group. The war’s over, but there’s still plenty of shit they never understood about the kaiju, so Newt’s going to keep hacking away at their organs and skin parasites and brain stems and etcetera to his heart’s content until they run out. Hermann does not share his enthusiasm. “He oversees the–ah–biologicalside of things.” Newt waves again, but with a piece of intestine this time. 

An intern raises a hand. Hermann stares at her until she lowers it, timidly. “Uh, why is there tape down the center?” she says.

“Because Hermann has a stick up his ass,” Newt says, cheerfully, at the same time Hermann says “Because Dr. Geiszler has no concept of personal space.”

Hermann scowls at Newt. Their interns look nervously between them.

“There is nothing unreasonable about not wanting decaying organs on my half of the lab, Newton,” Hermann says, a well-worn argument, and Newt’s heart skips a little beat. He  _loves_ arguing with Hermann, especially now that these days, it almost always ends up in angry making-out. Being married to Hermann is so awesome.

“So if we’re studying with Dr. Geiszler, we can’t cross it?” another intern asks.

“You can,” Hermann says. “Dr. Geiszler cannot, not unless he’s  _thoroughly_ disinfected himself.”

“We don’t have to disinfect ourselves, then?”

“You should, but–” Hermann sighs. “Assume any and all lab rules apply solely to Dr. Geiszler.”

This just gets him more questions, because Hermann, very handily (in a fit of rage), once tacked up a list of Official Lab Rules to the wall at the halfway mark between their two sides. Newt watches the following proceedings gleefully. Ccan they play loud music, then? Can they race around on their swivel chairs? Can they microwave chunks of kaiju or roast them over Bunsen burners just to see what happens? Can they use the coffee pot for anything other than making coffee? “Okay,” Newt finally cuts in, because they’re definitely fucking with Hermann at this point (one kid asked if he  _really_ can’t use kaiju blood to make a middle school-style baking soda volcano, which Newt did once, and it was awesome, even if he burned off his eyebrows and Hermann screamed himself hoarse), “leave Dr. Gottlieb alone before he has a stroke.”

Hermann looks relieved. The biology kids file over to Newt’s side, and the physics nerds to Hermann’s side, and they officially get their day in gear.

“Dr. Gottlieb seems  _terrifying_ ,” one kid whispers to Newt when Newt circles around to check on his progress; Newt’s set them all up with some random, and ancient, samples that he doesn’t have any use for any more, just to get them used to cutting into the thick kaiju skin. “How can you share a lab with him?”

Newt grins. “It has its perks,” he says. “Hermann’s a big softie, really.”

The intern nods, clearly skeptical. Then he adds a moment later, “Did you really make a volcano with kaiju blood?”

Newt glances over to make sure Hermann is preoccupied before answering. “Yeah, and it was  _sick_.”

“ _Cool_.”

Newt’s the one who ends up calling it a day, and does so, loudly, the second his wristwatch beeps five in the evening. “Alright, kiddos,” he declares, ripping off his apron and gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin. “You’re free. I’ve got a hot dinner date with my husband and I don’t want to be late.”

“ _Hot_ ,” Hermann repeats with a scoff, but sets his chalk down and wipes his hands off on his pants–he’s gotten much messier since they drifted, how cute. “It’s just the mess hall. It’s hardly a date.” He does accept the arm Newt holds out to him, though, links his left one through it with a smile and a little kiss at Newt’s cheek. “Thank you, love.”

Their interns are staring between them again, but far more confused, and mildly incredulous, this time.

“Technically it’s Geiszler-Gottlieb,” Newt tells them, “but we keep it separate in academic settings.”

“Far less confusing,” Hermann adds.

“See you all tomorrow!” Newt says, and, snickering a little, drags his husband off for dinner.


	110. secretly ripped hermann pt 2 (mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hi! Could you do a sequel of secretely ripped Hermann? Maybe from Hermann Pov, where his own fantasy pretty much matches with newt's? You're the best, Your writing always makes me smile so hard
> 
> Anonymous said: Could we have some more secretly built Hermann fic pls?

Logically, there are things Hermann could’ve done besides immediately flee to Newton’s bedroom–he could’ve gone to the lab, for example, where he keeps some spare bits of clothing in the event of Lab Incidents, and actually  _dressed_ himself–but he was in a state of panic, and people were staring in the hall, and Newton was the first thing that came to mind. He realizes it’s a bad idea when Newton answers the door without a shirt on, and Hermann is made keenly aware of exactly how appealing Newton is to him; he realizes it’s a  _terrible_ idea when Newton dresses him in his own clothing and simply hands over his own bed.

Everything is so…it’s too… Well. It smells like Newton, is the thing, and the mattress and pillows are still warm with Newton’s body heat (Newton’d only just gotten up), and Hermann can’t stop thinking of how soft and sleepy Newton looked, how he stared at Hermann (in shock, of course, Hermann turned up on his doorstep  _half-naked_ ), how Newton’s laying only a few feet away (in boxers, now, sweatpants discarded) and breathing evenly.

What if, Hermann stares at the paneling of Newton’s ceiling and wonders, Newton hadn’t volunteered to sleep on the floor? What if he hadn’t offered Hermann clothing? If he’d pulled Hermann into the room, pushed the towel to the floor, shoved Hermann against the door and–arousal settles low in Hermann’s stomach.

Newton’s breaths still come out slow, rhythmic; Hermann spares a glance at the little blanketed bundle of his lab partner on the floor. He’s turned away from Hermann, so Hermann can only see the slope of his back and his messy hair, but he’s sleeping, Hermann’s sure of it. A conscious Newton would never be this quiet. Or this still. Hermann eases his hand down his borrowed sweatpants.

As an afterthought, drags the collar of Newton’s t-shirt up to his nose and inhales. (Newton’s body soap; Newton’s aftershave; Newton’s hair product.) Newton, answering the door, shirtless, soft stomach poking over the sides of his sweatpants; Newton, leading Hermann to his bed, laughing, offering to dry him off, warm him up (“Just stay the night,” Newton would’ve murmured); Newton, touching him (Hermann curls his fingers round himself), kissing him, stripping off his sweatpants, his boxers, Hermann’s towel–

A little noise to Hermann’s right startles him before he can begin to properly touch himself: Newton’s breath hitching.

Newton’s back is still turned to him, but he–unmistakably–shifts beneath his blanket. The he gasps “Ah,” so quiet it’s almost a whisper. And again. Then he breathes “ _Yeah_.” And then “Hermann–”, and Hermann understands what’s going on.

“Newton,” Hermann hisses, bright red and growing  _harder_ , and Newton sits straight up like he’s been electrified.

“I wasn’t jerking off!” he shouts, one hand down his boxers and the other shoving his glasses back onto his face. Then he stares at where Hermann’shand is, still, likewise, crammed down his pants. “Were  _you_ jerking off?”

“No,” Hermann stammers, looking down at himself, “I wasn’t– _you_  were–”

“You were all buff and wet and sexy!” Newton cuts in. “What was I  _supposed_ to do?” 

“Buff?” Hermann says. 

They stare at each other. Then Hermann sits up slowly, then pulls the collar of Newton’s t-shirt up over his head just as slowly. “Hermann?” Newton says, voice a squeak.

“You think I’m,” Hermann says, and blushes harder, unable to pose the question, and unsure of whether  _buff_ or  _hot_ affected him more. Is he buff? He’s certainly stronger than he lets on, certainly a lot more muscular than his ill-fitting sweaters would suggest. He assumed Newton knew this of him. Evidently now. Hermann touches one of his pectorals, ghosting his finger over his nipple, and Newton groans, loud and needy. Hermann has never been the object of  _want_ like this before. (He hadn’t known all it took to get Newton into bed was simply to remove his shirt.)

“Hermann,” Newton breathes again, unsure. His hand hasn’t left his boxers, and he starts to move it again, gaze fixed right at Hermann’s bicep, then darting to his abdomen, then back up to his pectorals. He can’t seem to get his fill. “Can I…?”

Hermann sweeps his eyes over Newton’s body–his flab, his pink flush–and lowers his own hand back into his sweatpants. He nods. 


	111. greaser newt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Can we have bad boy! Newt loving the shit out of geek! Hermann? Like a grease au?
> 
> Anonymous said: Greaser!Newt is so perfect because Hermann is a shy, sensitive sweetheart with a horrible, horrible father, and greaser!Newt is a bad boy rebel with a heart of gold who will rescue Hermann from his terrible father

Hermann’s not sure what he did to gain the attentions of someone like Newton Geiszler–to be  _cursed with_  the attentions of someone like Newton Geiszler–but for the first time in his life, Hermann is grateful for them. Newton is obnoxious. He’s loud. He’s grimy. He’s tattooed. When he’s not pestering Hermann while they’re  _meant_  to be doing lab work, he’s tinkering on that ridiculous motorcycle of his, or he’s terrorizing the streets with it, or he’s screeching along to his guitar, or he’s kicking his muddy boots up on tabletops or tossing his leather jacket over chairs or–generally, making an undesirable nuisance of himself. He’s everything Hermann hates, wrapped up in one convenient scruffy, stocky little package.

More importantly, he’s everything Hermann’s  _father_ hates.

Which is why he’s perfect.

Hermann finds Newton lounging at a booth in the back of the diner–boots kicked up like usual, hair slicked back, shirtsleeves rolled up–and staring off into space as he downs a milkshake. When Hermann slams his cane on the linoleum floor and says “ _Newton_ ,” Newton jumps and chokes on the milkshake and nearly knocks his glass over.

“Hermann?” he says, coughing, and blinking in bewilderment. He scrambles into a proper sitting position and adjusts his thick eyeglasses, as if he can’t believe Hermann’s really standing in front of him. 

“Last week,” Hermann says, “you invited me out to go dancing.” Multiple times, in fact. Hermann can admire his persistence.

Newton adjusts his glasses again. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah. I did.”

Hermann grits his teeth a moment before he continues. “If you’re amenable, and the offer still stands–”

“Yes!” Newton blurts out, face splitting into a wide grin, and–in his excitement–upends a salt shaker into his lap. “I mean,” he says, clumsily picking it up and brushing himself off, “yeah, that’s–” He runs his fingers through his greased hair. A little curl falls forward. He shrugs. “Sure.”

Hermann doesn’t buy Newton’s indifference for one second, but he doesn’t say anything, lets him have his little act. (That morning, Newton was almost begging Hermann to let him carry his books to his next class.) “This Friday,” Hermann says. “Come over to my house at six  _exactly_. We’ll have dinner first.”

Newton’s smile returns, considerably…dopier. “Dinner,” he repeats. “You sure you don’t just wanna come here? I’ll buy you whatever–”

“ _No_ ,” Hermann says quickly. Newton shuts his mouth. “It has to be my house.”

Newton nods.

“Six exactly, Newton.”

“Should I–” Newton runs his fingers through his hair again, considerably more nervous. “Should I wear something nice? If I’m meeting your folks and all.”

Hermann looks over Newton’s messy hair, his week-old stubble, his crooked (partially broken) eyeglasses, his creased leather jacket, his cuffed and stained jeans, the outrageous ink that swirls over his forearms, the smudges of motor grease on his shirt and neck. Hermann shakes his head and smiles serenely. “No,” he says. “As you are is perfect, Newton.”

“ _Keen_ ,” Newton says, beaming away back at him.

* * *

Hermann has ulterior motives, of course. There are no other circumstances in which he would willingly invite Newton Geiszler into his household. Lately, Hermann’s father has been even more controlling and infuriating than usual, and–it’s  _juvenile_ to want revenge, Hermann knows, he’s freshly done with his teenage years, his time for rebellion has come and gone–but Newton’s just the type to get perfectly under Father’s skin. Especially if Father thinks they’re dating. He’ll take one look at Newton’s tattoos and his motorcycle–when Newton shows up half an hour  _late_  to their routine five-thirty dinner–and–well–Hermann can’t wait to see his expression.

And it’s  _not_ dishonest to Newton. He gets a date with Hermann out of it, something he’s been begging for for months. Years. Since Hermann moved to America and they got paired together as lab partners and Newton took an odd shine to him. He’s doing Newton just as much of a favor, even if he doesn’t  _remotely_ intend to put out. (Which is what he’s sure Newton’s after. That’s what all his type–loud, rebellious, swaggering–are only ever after.)

* * *

To Hermann’s dismay, on Friday evening Newton shows up on his front porch at five-thirty exactly in significantly less filthy jeans, bearing a bouquet of flowers that he thrusts at Hermann the moment he opens the door. “I’m sorry, man,” he leads with. “I know I’m early–”

“No,” Hermann sighs, and accepts the flowers glumly. They’re beautiful, unfortunately. “You’re right on time, damn you.” Newton didn’t even ride the  _motorcycle._ He just  _walked._

To Hermann’s further dismay, dinner doesn’t go anywhere nearly as badly as he hoped. It doesn’t go  _smoothly_ , not by any means–Father blanches wonderfully when he sees the tattoos and the state of Newton’s hair, and even further when Hermann explains that Newton lives on the  _other_ (“bad”) side of town, and things become tense when Newton talks about the possibility of space aliens for five solid minutes and follows it up with a rousing endorsement of socialism–but there’s no yelling, no chairs thrown halfway across the room, no demands that Newton leave the house at once and never return. Newton does not leap from the table and call Father a capitalist fascist pig. He doesn’t talk about his latest dissections in excruciating detail. He deflects all of Hermann’s desperate attempts to ignite one of their usual petty arguments. He doesn’t even put his boots up on the table (and Hermann even made sure to set out the  _good_ tablecloth). 

When he and Newton set off, Hermann makes sure, at least, to inform his father he hasn’t the  _slightest_ idea of when they’ll be getting home and that they shouldn’t bother waiting up for them, and hopes that the implications of debauchery and Newton ravishing him in the backseat of some car on lover’s lane haven’t gone right over his head. Newton holds tight to Hermann’s arm the entire walk to the dance hall and blabbers on endlessly, about how good dinner was and how he can’t cook “for shit”, how cool the evening’s gotten, some probably-illicit experiments he’s doing in his uncle’s garage, if Hermann saw that new film about the giant insects from outer space (or something along those lines), how excited he is that Hermann finally agreed to go on a date with him, how nice Hermann looks, how handsome he is, how his sweater brings out his eyes, how he hopes he likes the flowers (he grew them himself, in his uncle’s backyard), and not once does he mention how dreadful Hermann’s father is, not once does he try to get fresh with Hermann like Hermann expected, not once does he appear anything less than entirely enthusiastic to simply  _walk_  next to Hermann.

Hermann…does not know what to think.

When they reach the dance hall, Hermann finds a spot against the wall on the outskirts where he intends to wait until Newton’s decided he’s had his fill and takes Hermann back home. (Hermann  _can_ dance, but it can be difficult and strenuous on his leg, so he prefers not to.) But rather than separating from Hermann immediately to dance and mingle with the rest of the young and stylish and hip (and probably find someone easier to score with than Hermann), Newton follows him and sticks tight at his side. “You don’t have to,” Hermann assures him. “Really, Newton. Go off. Enjoy yourself.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Newton says, smiling. “Anyway, what kind of a lousy date would I be if I ditched you?” He starts swaying along to the music of the band on the stage, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. “So you really didn’t see  _Them_?”

Hermann shakes his head slowly.

“It’s playing at the drive-in this weekend,” Newton says. “I could take you tomorrow night.” He goes pink. “Only if you want to, I mean.”

Something strange stirs in Hermann’s chest. He evades the question. “On your bike?”

“My old man’ll let me borrow his car,” Newton says. “He knows how I–that you–” He blushes harder. Hermann stares at the floor. “Nevermind. Uh.”

To Hermann’s utter surprise, he has a  _good time_ with Newton. Newton’s running commentary on everything from his experiments (which Hermann has decided are absolutely illicit) to the music (which Newton enjoys, even if it is a bit slow) eventually becomes entertaining rather than merely bearable. He fetches Hermann drinks whenever he wants. He keeps complimenting Hermann, too, as he had on the walk over. He even manages to coerce Hermann out onto the dance floor during a particularly slow song, and if Hermann settles his head against Newton’s sturdy chest and allows Newton to wrap his arms round his waist as they sway together, it’s only because it’s the proper way to dance with one’s date.

 

Newton lends him his jacket for the walk back home, since Hermann looked cold, apparently, and it’s both too-short and too-big at the same time. It smells like Newton, hair grease and sweat and cologne that Newton, earlier, confessed he stole from his father for the night, and Hermann draws it tight around himself as he listens to Newton chat away happily.

Guilt builds steadily in his gut. 

“Did you have fun?” Newton suddenly says. “I had  _so_ much fun.”

They’ve reached Hermann’s front gate, and they come to a stop just outside it. He supposes he’ll have to say goodnight to Newton, now. That’s the proper date procedure. Will Newton ask him on another one? Will he try to kiss Hermann? Will he ask to come inside? But Newton does none of those things; he simply stands there, watching Hermann. Waiting for him to make a move. Hermann chews his lip. “Newton,” he says.

“Yeah?” Newton looks so  _happy_ , damn him.

“I didn’t–” Hermann taps his finger on the head of his cane nervously. “I haven’t been entirely fair to you. You should know–”

“–that you only asked me out to piss off your old man?” Newton finishes, not losing his smile. “Hermann. I’m not an idiot.”

Hermann supposes he should be embarrassed about being found out that easily, or mortified, or ashamed, or a whole host of other entirely appropriate emotions, but instead he just feels  _irritated_. “If you knew, then why in the hell didn’t you play along?” he exclaims. Newton can pick fights with Hermann every day of the week, but not the one time it really matters. “You were positively  _civil_!” 

“Look, don’t get me wrong,” Newton says, and snorts derisively. “He’s a total fucking square, man, and I would’ve  _loved_ to, but–” He shrugs, and grins a little sheepishly. “It was nice pretending that you wanted to be my guy and go dancing with me, even for just a night. I’ve never gone on a date before or anything like that. I really did have fun.”

Hermann’s irritation fades back into guilt, with a healthy dose of embarrassment and mortification  _and_  shame this time. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I’ve misjudged you very badly, Newton.”

Newton waves his hand. “And I screwed up your plan. We’re even.”

They stare at each other. Hermann’s not sure why he’s not yet opened his front gate–Newton, obviously, does not expect another date, nor a kiss, certainly not an invitation inside. Hermann reaches for the gate. Then he stops, pulls away. “Er,” he says. “There’s that film tomorrow night. The one you like. With the–ah–the insects. We could always…”

He does not finish his proposal, but he does not need to. Newton is beaming, and it’s shy, and sweet, and–it’s hard to tell for certain, in just the moonlight, but–his blush has returned. (Newton is loud, and messy, and obnoxious, but he is also intelligent, and funny, and very,  _very_  good-looking.) “I’ll lay on the horn for five minutes when I pick you up,” Newton says. “Stomp through your front garden, too. I’ll be a regular delinquent, Hermann, your old man’ll be forbidding you to see me by next Tuesday.” 

The thought excites Hermann more than he anticipated–Newton, the no-good town delinquent, stealing away with Hermann for what can only be scandalous purposes. “I don’t doubt it,” Hermann says. He casts a glance up at his house, and the houses surrounding; all the lights are turned off, meaning everyone’s likely turned in for the night, but… “Kissing me goodnight in full view of the neighbors  _certainly_  wouldn’t help our case.”

“Oh,” Newton squeaks, and then he agrees,  _very_ enthusiastically.


	112. greaser newt pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lesbian-mac asked:  
> PLEASE if u have time n ideas.,, expand on the greaser au in the good name of all gay people with daddy issues,

Hermann’s job at the campus library is largely uneventful–a few hours a week filing cards, stamping books, and glaring at people who get too noisy–and hardly anyone knows he works there, so needless to say he’s surprised when one of his co-workers informs him he has a visitor asking after him at the front desk. He’s less surprised when he makes it to the desk and he sees just exactly who it is lounging against it, grimy and slouching and playing with a rubber stamp. He doesn’t look up, not until Hermann sidles back over to his station and clears his throat. “Can I help you?” he says.

Newton tosses the stamp back down and leans against the desk, propping his chin up on his hands and gazing up at Hermann. “Hiya,” he says. “What’s shaking?”

He’s never visited Hermann at work before, and they have a date planned for hardly three hours from now (the cinema, then–well, Newton’s borrowing his father’s shiny convertible for a  _reason_ , plenty of secluded spots for them to park away from prying eyes), so Hermann can’t imagine why he’s here. He’s wildly conspicuous, too; mud caked on his boots, leather jacket flung over his shoulder, grease smears on his arms. Like he’s just come from his garage laboratory, or from working on his bike. “Do you need something, Newton?” Hermann says, then frowns. “Do you need to reschedule for tonight?”

“Nah,” Newton says. He reaches out and smooths his hand over Hermann’s lapels. Hermann feels himself grow warm (though, privately, worries about grease stains). “Can’t I just visit my guy at work?” Newton says. He smiles flirtatiously, but Hermann is immune to all his charms at this point. Newton turned the same look on him last week with a sheepish “sorry, honey,” when he accidentally smashed his (borrowed) convertible into Hermann’s mailbox (though Hermann truthfully relished in his father’s fury over the incident and subsequent denouncing of Hermann’s no-good scoundrel of a boyfriend) and the week before when he spilled chemicals all over Hermann’s lab notebook.

Hermann slides the stamp back over to himself. “Not unless you’re checking something out,” he says.

Newton touches his lapel again. “Can I check  _you_ out, sweetheart?” He winks. Hermann snorts derisively before he can help himself; Newton’s flirtatiousness simply melts away into a genuine broad grin. “I just missed you, is all,” he confesses. “I finished up my labwork early and wanted to swing by. Catch you in your element.” He reaches out and pokes at the bridge of Hermann’s eyeglasses before Hermann can swat him away. “You make a dreamy librarian.”

“You’re dirtying up the place,” Hermann says, and sniffs, and Newton looks down at his dirty boots and arms and shrugs.

“Whatever,” he says, but he wipes his hands off on his jeans. “So, wanna blow off early?” He inclines his head towards the exit.

There are hardly any students in the library today–it’s a Friday afternoon, after all, everyone’s gone home or back to their dormitories or out to town by now–so Hermann doubts he’ll be missed if he  _were_ to leave with Newton right now, but… “I’ve still got another few hours to go,” he sighs.

“In that case,” Newton says, “I could  _really_ use some help finding a book.”

 

“This is a terrible idea,” Hermann gasps, as Newton brackets his arms on either side of Hermann’s head, gripping tight to the bookshelf Hermann’s pushed up against and nuzzling at his neck. They’re in a secluded section of the library, the back room, empty even on days when the library’s packed. Hermann feigned needing to put some books away, and Newton followed eagerly on his heels and started kissing him the moment they were out of eyesight. “We’ll be caught, oh–”

“If you keep talking, we will,” Newton says. “Lemme concentrate, I’m trying to give you a hickey.” He nips at the skin just above Hermann’s high collar. The first couple times Newton’d given him hickeys, it was solely in the name of infuriating Hermann’s father (his son, running around like that with  _those_ , from someone like  _Geiszler_ ) before they realized they both quite enjoy the experience.

Nevertheless, Hermann refuses to sport any during his work shift. “Don’t you  _dare_ ,” he says, but when Newton starts to suck over his love bite, Hermann drops his cane and clings to the front of Newton’s filthy shirt. “Fine,” he gasps, “fine, oh–” Newton sucks a little harder; Hermann gives a breathless little giggle and tilts his head back. “Newton–”

“Gottlieb?” Hermann’s co-worker calls, and–before he and Newton can spring apart–the girl is poking her head round the corner and peering down the stacks straight at them. She immediately flushes deep with embarrassment and stares at the ground. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean–we just need you at the desk, is all.” She turns on her heels.

Red and mortified, Hermann pushes Newton off of him and fixes his sweatervest while a far too amused Newton gathers up his leather jacket, Hermann’s cane, and a few books they’ve knocked off the shelf. “Thank you,” Hermann says, snatching his cane and, after a moment’s consideration, the books too. His neck stings somewhat. Newton must’ve been successful in his endeavor. “I should–well.” He watches Newton fix his hair, that one little curl still falling forward. “I should get back to the desk.”

“Yeah, okay.” Newton stretches up on the tips of his boots and gives Hermann a quick peck on the lips, and Hermann’s heart flutters. “See you tonight, sugar.”


	113. unintentionally secretly married newmann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> This isn’t on the list, but where hermann and newt r both professors n everyone knows they’re married, but nobody knows they’re married to each other(every1 thinks they have wives bc, you know) N like ppl start seeing m flirt w each other n it’s a scandal! Thanks for ur dedication to this fandom btw I’d be dead without u

“Today,” Newton says out of nowhere, halfway through their uninspiring dinner of reheated leftovers from last night’s Date Night, “my students asked me why I never talk about my wife.”

Hermann chokes on some pasta; Newton waits, patiently, until he finishes coughing, then slides his glass of water across the table. Hermann takes a sip and clears his throat. “Your wife?”

“My wife,” Newton says. “Apparentlythey can’t understand why I mention Dr. Gottlieb  _all the time_  and never my wife. Since,” he holds up his left hand, waggles his ring finger, “this obviously means I have to be married to a woman.” He shakes his head and stabs at his own pasta. “The nerveto assume I’m straight. Can you believe it?”

“What did you say?” Hermann asks, genuinely curious. He was under the impression everyone knew he and Newton were married. They eat lunch together every day. They talk about each other–at least,  _Newton_ talks about  _him_ –constantly. They go everywhere together. They even officially hyphenated their last names _,_ which, even if they remain the unhyphenated Geiszler and Gottlieb for clarification purposes on campus, a simple Google search would reveal in seconds.

“I was kind of shocked, to be honest,” Newton says. “I thought they were screwing with me.”

“Did you tell them we’re–”

“I didn’t say anything,” Newton says. “Like I said. Shocked.” He leers. “Pretty sure they think we’re having an affair now, though.”

“Fantastic,” Hermann sighs.

 

Newton knocks on his office door a week or so later, scarf–that Hermann knitted him–wound tight round his neck, snowflakes melting on his shoulders, and two seasonally-appropriately-patterned Starbucks cups balanced under his arm. “Got you coffee, babe,” he calls, and Hermann pulls off his glasses and takes a cup with a smile.

“Thank you,” he says. He clears some papers aside and pats the newly-revealed wooden surface; Newton hops up happily, legs swinging. “You’re wearing the scarf,” Hermann says, and tugs at the end of it. “It looks nice on you.” He was worried it’d be too long, or the colors wouldn’t look nice together the way he wanted them too, but the green matches Newton’s eyes almost exactly and, though it is long, it’s enough that Newton can wrap it comfortably a good few times.

“My students liked it,” Newton says. “They were  _speechless_ when I told them Dr. Gottlieb knitted it for me.”

Hermann twists the end around his fingers and tugs on it a little more, drawing Newton towards him, and Newton leans in without complaint. Their noses bump. “Were they?” he says. Newton’s tongue darts out over his lips. His eyelids are at half-mast. Surely, no one will mind if they–

There’s a knock at the office door. “Dr. Gottlieb?” someone squeaks.

Hermann releases Newton’s scarf, and Newton snaps up, shoulders rigid. Hermann peers around him to see one of his very mortified Intro to Astronomy students lurking in the doorway. “Uh,” she says. “I have my final paper.”

Newton slides to his feet. “See you,” he says, and–with a wink, the bastard–breezes past her.

 

Newton makes it his bloody  _job_ to make sure Hermann’s students catch him in compromising positions after that. He tails him to class every morning and bids him farewell with far-too flirty  _I’ll miss you_ s, waits until Hermann has a student with him before he brings him his daily coffee, even once–to Hermann’s horror–grabs his hands in the middle of the quad and breathes on them with a  _oh, honey, you’re so cold!_ as a gaggle of their students speed past. He’s getting a kick out of, predictably. (“It’s fun being the center of gossip. Like we’re tragic star-crossed lovers or something,” he says. “Okay, I am kinda offended about the wife thing, though, like–”) Hermann, not so much.

“Tomorrow, Newton,” Hermann announces as they prepare for bed one night, elbows bumping at the sink as Newton brushes his teeth and Hermann puts on a face mask. (He likes how it makes his skin feel, so sue him, and Newton always rubs their cheeks together afterwards and coos about how  _soft_ he is and how  _good_ he smells.) “Tomorrow I tell them.”

“Fair,” Newton says. “At least be dramatic about it. Announce that I’m the love of your life and you’ll die without me, or something.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Hermann says.

Newton pouts.

“Though I suppose it  _is_ true, to a degree…”

“Aw, honey,” Newton says, and gives him a toothpaste-messy kiss, to his disgust (and delight).

 

Hermann shows up for class the next day to a host of scrutinizing looks and lingering stares on his wedding ring. The girl who came upon the two of them in Hermann’s office, predictably, told everyone.

“Are you married, Dr. Gottlieb?” someone asks. 

Hermann folds up his coat and lays it across the podium before answering. “I am,” he says. “ToDr. Geiszler. Sorry to disappoint.” He turns away before he can see his class’s reactions, but he’s unable to keep himself from smirking a bit.

 

Newton does not stop flirting outrageously every chance he gets, but Hermann can’t find he minds it.


	114. soft newt + enamored hermann (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Would you please bless my soul and heart (if you have time) with anything about soft Newt and Hermann loving his love handles, cause I saw and ask about it and I need it :v

Newt is five minutes into giving Hermann the railing of–not his life, Newt’s not that ambitious and he knows it’s not his top performance by far, railing of the week, maybe–when Hermann tentatively reaches out and takes hold of both Newt’s sides, squeezing gently. Newt freezes, buried to the hilt in his flat ass, but Hermann doesn’t seem to notice anything is up. Just keeps squeezing away happily. “Uh?” Newt says.

Hermann is flushed red from where his bangs stick to his forehead to his chest and  _sweaty_ , and, up until Newt stopped, he’d had his eyes shut and his lips curled into a smile of pure bliss. Now, he cracks an eyelid and his lips tilt down. “Why–?”

“You’re kinda–squeezing me,” Newt says.

“I know,” Hermann says, and adjusts his long fingers so he’s gripping Newt’s flabby love handles even tighter. He shifts his hips and rocks up against Newt impatiently. “Please continue. We haven’t all night.”

“You got top secret plans you haven’t told me about?” Newt says, but Hermann kicks his heel into Newt’s back until Newt yelps loudly and says, “Okay, okay, Jesus, dude! Fucking impatient,” and resumes his steady thrusting into him. Hermann’s head falls back on the pillows and his grin turns lazy once more, and he kneads at Newt’s sides, pinching just a bit too tight every time Newt grazes his prostate.

“Wonderful,” he sighs, hooking his leg around Newt’s thighs and urging him on, “wonderful, Newton–you’re so lovely–”

Newt’s not ashamed of his body, not by any means, but previous boyfriends certainly haven’t been as… _enthusiastic_ about it as Hermann is, not by a long shot, so he thinks he can be excused for blushing and ducking his head a little when Hermann gets like this. Usually, it’s only when they’re cuddling, or Hermann’s just woken up and sleepy-feeling him up in the kitchen, but last week he latched onto Newt like this as he plowed into him from behind in the shower and blabbered on and on about how handsome and gorgeous and perfect he is, so it’s not entirely new territory. Newt’s still embarrassed, though. “Jeez, Hermann,” he laughs, but Hermann levels another kick at his back again. “ _Ow!_ Dude! Come on!”

“Touch me,” Hermann orders, clenching around his dick and tugging Newt down until their chests brush, and Newt whimpers and nods and winds his arms around Hermann’s waist. (Hermann gets bossy as  _shit_ when they make love. Which is not to say Newt’s not very, very into it.) He fucks into Hermann faster, aware that his pudge is–well, shaking, a little, but Hermann doesn’t seem to care–and Hermann leaves sloppy kisses up his neck and moans prettily in his ear, “Newton– _yes_ , darling, oh–!”

“Fuck,” Newt gasps, shutting his eyes, and Hermann clenches around him again and fireworks spark and fizzle behind Newt’s eyelids, and tension coils in his gut, “okay, shit, dude, I’m gonna–”

He manages to squeeze his hand between their bodies and jerk Hermann off clumsily so they come together, instead of Newt just blowing his load and then having to give Hermann an embarrassed blowjob or something, and then afterwards Hermann gets even more grabby than before. Newt thought he’d want to be little spoon tonight (he usually does, when Newt’s the one doing the railing, Newt’s learned over time) but there’s no spooning, no awkwardly moving around until one of them is curled up against the other–Hermann just burrows into Newt’s hairy chest and squeezes him tight. Newt wonders if he’ll have fingerprints bruised into his skin tomorrow. “What the deal?” he says, poking Hermann’s shoulder.

“You’re  _very_ comfortable,” Hermann says. He kisses Newt’s sternum.

“That’s not exactly what every guy wants to hear from his husband, dude,” Newt huffs. “Not sexy? Not irresistible? Comfortable, like I’m a huge fucking pillow or something?”

“Hush, love,” Hermann says. “You’re sexy  _and_  irresistible and you know it. I just happen to be wildly enamored with all of you.” He hums as he presses himself closer, and he looks so happy and sweet and sleepy that Newt can’t help but take him in his arms again. Hermann shuts his eyes. “You’re  _my_ pillow,” he mumbles. He always gets weird and delirious when he’s tired. It’s really cute. Hermann’s a cutie.

“Cool,” Newt says, and, beaming, he shuts off the light.


	115. greaser newt pt 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> CAN U IMAGINE. Greaser!Newt climbing up into Hermann's room one night and they stay up late (talking? making out?) and they don't realize they've fallen asleep until Lars is at the bedroom door in the morning!!

There’s a small  _ping_ at Hermann’s bedroom window.

At first, he thinks it must be rain, or something he’s imagined, and then there’s another, much louder  _ping_. More like a thud. Then another. Like someone’s throwing something at the window. Like–Hermann sighs, and reaches out and unlatches it. A few seconds later, his grimy and disheveled boyfriend tumbles through and falls flat on his face.

“You’re going to get yourself  _killed_ one of these days,” Hermann scolds, then peers outside to ascertain that they’ve not been spotted by any neighbors before carefully shutting and re-latching the window. “By your own hands or by my father’s.” Newton has offered, more than once, to have Hermann move in with him–they’re no longer teenagers, after all, it’s perfectly acceptable for them to live together–and though Hermann’s always declined, each time Newton shimmies up his creaking and rusting drain pipe he can’t help but reconsider.

Newton pops up on his knees, beaming happily, and tugs on the hem of Hermann’s cardigan insistently until Hermann rolls his eyes and joins him on the floor. “Aw, don’t worry about that,” he says. “I’m a pro at this point. Really. C’mere, sweetheart, I missed you–”

He lets Newton kiss him enthusiastically and slip his hands under Hermann’s cardigan a little before pushing him off. “You’re filthy,” he declares, plucking at the front of Newton’s white t-shirt. It’s streaked with grease from his garage and dirt from the side of the house, something else that looks like coffee. Newton’s jacket looks more worse for wear than usual, too. “What have you been  _doing_?”

“Work,” Newton says, then quickly deflects. He sneaks his hand up Hermann’s shirt again. “C’mon. I didn’t climb all the way up here to talk.”

“Presumptuous,” Hermann tsks, but takes a lapful of eager and amorous Newton easily, and without complaint. Newton kisses at his neck, pushes off his cardigan all the way, and is getting started on the buttons of Hermann’s shirt when Hermann gasps “Wait, wait.”

“Mm?” Newton licks over his pulse point.

“You’re getting me–” Newton’s smeared grease all over his clean shirt, probably over his cardigan, too, and Newton laughs and pulls himself away.

“Oh!” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, babydoll. Here–” He shrugs off his jacket and rips his shirt over his head, nearly dislodging his glasses, then tosses both into the corner of Hermann’s bedroom; he flexes and preens a little when Hermann brushes his hand down his strong, sturdy chest. “Problem solved.”

They move to the Hermann’s bed and do nothing but neck for a little: Newton’s hands up his shirt, his lips on his throat, Newton above him and warm and laughing in his arms (Hermann’s favorite place to have Newton), saying sweet, gentle things to him. “What were you doing before I got here?” Newton murmurs in his ear, glasses fogged up, as Hermann pets at his slicked hair and rubs over his shoulder blades. 

“Readings,” Hermann says, and casts a single forlorn look at the pile of books stacked up on his desk. “I do have classes tomorrow. So do you.”

“Mm,” Newton says. “Boring.” He bites Hermann’s earlobe. “Do you wanna go out stargazing this weekend? We could take my bike. Stay out late, and–”

“Yes,” Hermann says before Newton can finish. “Yes, I’d love to.”

“Swell,” Newton says, smiling against his skin. He kisses Hermann’s throat again, his jaw, then nuzzles in tight to his chest and worms his arms around Hermann’s waist. Hermann thinks he should wish Newton goodnight, send him back off through the window so he can sleep, but he’s so soft and solid and warm (as always), and there’s something soothing about the steadiness of his breathing, of his heartbeat, and Hermann’s eyes drift shut before he can help himself.

He wakes to sunlight pouring through his window, to Newton’s dozing handsome face above him, and more importantly, to loud knocking on the door. “Hermann,” his father is calling.

 _Damn_ , Hermann thinks. He slaps, frantically, at Newton’s arm, and Newton awakes with a confused mumble. “What?” he says, and Hermann slaps a hand over his mouth and shakes his head.

“ _Hermann_ ,” Hermann’s father repeats, and Newton’s eyes widen in panic.

“Just a moment!” Hermann calls, as the doorknob turns ominously. There’s not nearly enough time for Newton to dress and escape through the window, and if Father catches them like this he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be allowed to  _look_ at Newton again, so they’ve only one option. Hermann yanks the bedclothes over them and shoves Newton down to his waist just as Hermann’s father steps into the room. (Hermann’s suddenly very thankful Newton did not get around to stripping Hermann of his t-shirt as well.)

Hermann is not entirely aware of what his father is saying to him, not with his heart racing so fast, not with Newton’s fingers splayed around Hermann’s knees, his forehead pressed to Hermann thigh, his breath ghosting hot across his skin. Oh, hell, Newton’s  _clothing_ is bundled up in the corner. Father need only spare on tiny glance in that direction, and– Hermann’s father leaves with a single nod, shutting the door behind him, and Hermann sags with relief. Newton’s head pokes out of the covers half a second later. “Wow,” he whispers. “Close one. Of all the ways I expected your old man to find out I’ve already claimed your honor or whatever–”

Hermann shoves Newton, grinning, back below the covers.


	116. sticky note love letters (nsfw at end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Sgdhbdjfkl ignore if u want but I love the idea of newt leaving inappropriate sticky note messages on Hermanns desk, and Hermann scrambling to hide them before someone sees

It starts innocuously enough. Inconsequential, even. Newton is called away last-minute from the Shatterdome to see to outside business (confusion over sample shipments, a mix-up in addresses, somehow) and, in lieu of an email or text, Newton leaves Hermann a small sticky-note on his chalkboard explaining that he’ll be out for the day and Hermann should not expect him.

_See you at dinner_ , he ends it.  _❤ Newt_

The small heart makes Hermann’s heart thud oddly in his chest; he finds an ancient lidless tea-tin jumbled in with Newton’s snacks and ramen packets in their small kitchenette, disposes of the single remaining teabag, and hides the note in the tin (and then the tin in his desk) for reasons he can’t quite bring himself to admit to.

(❤ Newt. Hermann likes the look of that heart.)

Newton continues leaving notes, and Herman’s hoard grows over the next few months:  _getting takeout at that place you like bringing you back dumplings ❤ newt, borrowed your coat will return it! ❤ newt, mess hall at 4? in deployment bay rn ❤ newt._ All equally innocuous. All equally unimportant. But only the ones that end with that little scribbled heart, not the - _newt_ s, not the - _n_ s, not the tiny doodled lizard in glasses and a tie. Only ❤.

“Can I borrow a pen?” Newt asks one day, shaking and frowning at his own. “Mine’s dead.”

It’s paperwork day, specifically supply request day–Hermann’s filling out forms for the usual (chalk, instant coffee, graph paper), Newton’s trying his (poor) luck at an espresso machine and a toaster oven once more–so Hermann is mildly distracted when he grunts out his consent. “Desk.”

Newton crouches down next to him and selects a drawer at random; Hermann realizes his mistake a moment too late when Newton suddenly whistles and says “ _Dude_.”

He’s holding out the tea tin. Hermann’s folded all of Newton’s notes, but even without Newton’s handwriting being visible, there’s no mistaking what they are: Newton’s personal use sticky notes are lime green and shaped like small dinosaurs. Hermann drops his pen and makes a grab for the tin, blanching horribly, but Newton dodges him and brandishes one of the notes in his face. ❤ Newt. “Dude!” Newton repeats. “You  _saved_ all these?”

“Er,” Hermann says. His face burns

“Why?” Newton says. He’s started picking through them. He’s sure to notice soon, that Hermann’s only saved the ones bearing Newton’s–well– _love_ sounds pathetic. Affection, maybe. “They’re just…” He shrugs and grins at Hermann, a little bewildered.

“Give them back,” Hermann says, desperation obvious, and swiping for them again unsuccessfully. “Newton, please, give them back to me now.”

Newton’s finished going through them all. He stares up at Hermann, expression unreadable. His grin’s faded. “Hermann,” he says, the last one he’d posted up– _will clean dirty dishes tomorrow dw!!!!! ❤ newt_ –clenched tight in his fist. “These–do you–?”

(You’re the one who  _signed_ the bloody hearts in the first place, Hermann wants to say.) He opens his mouth to speak. To think of some excuse.

Newton pulls him down by the lapels of his blazer and kisses him.

 

The notes migrate to other places in the lab, after that, become far more personal.  _your hair is getting long_ , Newton sticks in a container of chalk,  _it’s really cute. i like that sweater_ on his mug _. let me take you out on friday? 9?_ on more paperwork. One afternoon, just a doodle of them kissing stuck to the tray of lunch Newton leaves on his desk. Newton drops the  _❤ newt_ , but Hermann stashes them all in the little tin anyway. (Newton watches from afar with a sweet, dopey smile on his face each time, one Hermann’s certain he doesn’t know Hermann can see.)

Then they get  _less_ innocuous.

_stop by my room later ;))))_ posted to the uppermost part of the chalkboard. Graphic descriptions of just how much Newton enjoyed himself during their (wildly successfully) liaison the morning after. An appreciative comment on how Hermann’s trousers cling to his front today, exactly what Newton is fantasizing about at any given moment (dropping to his knees in front of the chalkboard, criminally misusing the emergency shower, spreading himself out over Hermann’s desk, spreading  _Hermann_ out over Hermann’s desk, exactly how he’d like to take Hermann apart with his tongue and two single fingers), a list of suggestions for what Hermann can do with Newton’s tie, speculations as to whether or not anyone’s seen Newton’s latest hickeys/limp/bruises and has discerned exactly what he and Hermann get up to after hours ( _everyone would be so jealous if they knew what a beast you are in the sack_ ). Today’s is particularly graphic, and pasted dead-center on his desk, too:  _when we’re finished today i’m going to ride you and then flip you over and_ –

“Dr. Gottlieb?” a j-tech says, and Hermann snaps straight up.

“Yes?” he says, hoping his blush isn’t too obvious.

The j-tech had been lingering in the doorway for God-knows how long, but now he hurries forward, a clipboard in hand. “I was hoping you could look over some of these stats for us,” he says, and Hermann pushes his glasses up and nods, red-faced and flustered. An hour until he can go home to Newton–who’s left the lab suspiciously early–and Newton can make good on his promises. An hour, an hour–he’s scanning through the sheets, half-distracted by thoughts of Newton (what is Newton doing now? readying himself for Hermann? showering? undressing? touching himself impatiently, thinking of Hermann, waiting for Hermann, breathing out Hermann’s name softly, sweetly into his pillow), when he realizes he’s forgotten to cover up Newton’s note. One single glance to the left, and the j-tech is suddenly privy to Hermann’s entire, newly discovered, sex life.

Put simply: Hermann panics.

“I’m–er–very sorry about the mess,” Hermann says, once he finishes mopping up what he can from the poor charts with his handkerchief. He supposes he could’ve just slid his elbow over and covered up the note, but in the heat of the moment, upending an ancient and stagnant mug of coffee across his desk seemed like the most reasonable course of action. (The note is entirely unreadable now, as are most of the data the j-tech wanted his opinion on.) “Truly. Er. Muscle spasms. Very hard to control. Had them since–childhood.”

“Uh. No sweat, Doctor,” the j-tech says, taking back the soaked papers with a look of mild disgust. “I’ll just…reprint them and come back later?”

“Lovely,” Hermann says, and gives the man a curt nod. He fumbles around for his cane. “I’ll be going now. Please excuse me. I have–business to attend to.”

He hightails it out of there, but not fast enough to miss the j-tech call “Tell Dr. Geiszler I say hi!” after him, to Hermann’s sheer and utter mortification.

 

Newton’s on him the moment Hermann falls into his bed, though he’s  _tragically_  in pajamas and not nude as Hermann’d been hoping. (Nevertheless, in spite of the fabric barriers, Hermann wraps fingers around Newton’s pleasing rear-end and love handles anyway.) “Did you like my note?” Newton says in his ear, between teasing, biting kisses to his neck.

“You have a way with words,” Hermann says.


	117. uncle hermann + teacher newt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 2 or 3 I’m BEGGING
> 
> winter prompts  
> 2: i sit at the rental booth at our local ice rink and watch you teach children how to skate  
> 3: alternatively, i watch kids teach you how to skate because you’re a terrible skater
> 
> 3!

Hermann is terribly fond of his sister, and he’s terribly fond of his niece and nephew, but if he knew that agreeing to stay with them for the remainder of December meant playing babysitter while Karla ran “errands”, he probablywould’ve simply stayed home and saved himself the airplane fare. He knows it’s just Karla’s ploy to get him to both spend time with her children and stop working so hard all the time (she was hardly subtle about guilting him into it over the phone– _they barely know their uncle, Hermann, and your classes are out for winter, you can’t even spare a few days for us_?), and he  _is_ fond of them, they’re wonderful children, but he’s not particularly fond of things children like to do, like chase each other around the flat, or watch loud television programs, or leave sandwich crusts in the couch cushions, or do a whole host of other things Hermann and his siblings would’ve been heavily reprimanded by their father for doing back in the day.

Or insist on Hermann taking them ice-skating even when it’s below freezing out, and snowing, and the public ice rink is entirely outdoors.

After the third time Hermann calls Karla and begs her to come homealready, so he can have an excuse to drag her children back to her flat that’s not  _I am cold and miserable_ , Karla starts letting it go to voicemail.  _Have fun! :)_ she finally texts him, and Hermann swears, shoves his phone back into his pocket, and wraps his scarf around his face just one more time. Snow flecks his glasses. His breath puffs out white in front of him.  _I am cold and miserable_ , he thinks.

His niece and nephew are excellent skaters, apparently, which is a relief, because Hermann can’t exactly supervise them on the ice. (Regardless of his cane, he never learned in the first place, too busy with his nose buried in books and equations.) As it is, he’s just…lurking off to the side a bit, leaning on the icy metal railing and keeping an eye on them. Making sure they don’t mortally wound themselves, or wander off elsewhere, or get into trouble.

Like now, unfortunately; both of children are shouting things at a man who, until a few minutes ago, had been clinging to the railing across the way and clumsily slipping and sliding along the ice. At first, for a long, bewildering minute, Hermann thinks they’re tauntingthe man (loud and rambunctious children though they may be, they’re hardly cruel, and certainly not to perfect strangers), and then he realizes they’re actually  _teaching_  him. Walking him through the steps of ice skating. Hermann watches with mild interest as they guide him in successfully navigating the length of the rink once, twice, (laughing, all three of them), when he decides that he should probably step in. Surely they must be bothering him, surely they must– “Uncle Hermann!” his niece calls, waving at him frantically, and Hermann sighs and begins trudging over through the snow. (He should’ve worn something besides his usual Oxfords for this.)

They’re off the rink by the time Hermann makes it to them, apology to the man–who’s bent over and unlacing his skates, swapping them out for messy combat boots–already on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it when the man straightens up to his full height and gives Hermann a charming smile. He’s not unattractive. The opposite, in fact. He’s Hermann’s age, with thick square glasses, wavy brown hair partially hidden by a large woolen hat (gaudy rainbow stripes, with earflaps), freckles that Hermann can only just see on his cold-flushed red cheeks, a good deal of scruff. His thick sweater, Hermann can see, has rows on rows of tiny dinosaurs stitched into it. The overall effect is…very pleasing. “This is our biology teacher, Dr. Geiszler!” Hermann’s nephew says excitedly.

That would explain it all, then.

Dr. Geiszler sticks his hand out. He’s wearing bright purple mittens. Horribly lumpy and misshapen, like he’s knitted them himself. “Call me Newt,” he says (voice scratchy, a little high, Hermann doesn’t mind) as Hermann accepts the handshake. “You’re the infamous Uncle Hermann, then?”

“Dr. Gottlieb,” Hermann corrects automatically, immediately beginning to stammer like a fool (Geiszler isn’t the first attractive man he’s spoken to in his life, why is he freezing up now?), “er–I mean, yes, Uncle Hermann. Hermann Gottlieb. That’s me.”

“Bit of a mouthful,” Geiszler says. “Can I just stick with Hermann?” His smile’s gone flirtatious, and his eyes flick down the length of Hermann’s body; Hermann feels himself grow warm, becoming distinctly aware of his wet shoes, his oversized trousers, his horribly unfashionable sweater. He straightens out his shoulders and pulls his hand from Geiszler’s.

“Yes,” Hermann says quickly. “That’s–yes.”

“I’ve heard a  _lot_ about you,” Geiszler tells him a few minutes later, once Hermann’s niece and nephew quickly got bored of them and returned to the ice. Geiszler’s bought him a coffee from a nearby stand that Hermann was not aware even existed. He’s not lost the smile, and he’s standing  _awfully_  close to Hermann, their elbows they’ve propped up on the railing nearly touching. “You’re some sort of genius college professor, huh? Math and shit, right?” He nods towards Karla’s children. “They never shut up about you, dude. I feel like I know you already.”

“Astrophysics,” Hermann says. He blinks. “They don’t?” He wasn’t aware they thought of him so…highly.

“They don’t,” Geiszler says. He deliberately brushes their elbows together, and flutters his eyelashes coyly. “They never mentioned how  _cute_  you are, though.”

Hermann nearly drops his Styrofoam cup. “Ah,” he says, face burning hotter as Geiszler watches him closely.

“They did mention you were single, though,” Geiszler continues, casually.

“Ah,” Hermann repeats, and takes a long sip of coffee. “Er.” He clears his throat and changes the subject. “Do you routinely come to ice rinks just to–?”

“Look like a dumbass?” Geiszler says, and laughs when Hermann nods. “Nah, this was on pure impulse today. I just wanted to try to teach myself, but obviously that didn’t work out. Glad I did, though.” He nudges Hermann with his elbow again and adds, blunt and to the point, “So, you wanna get coffee after this or something?”

There’s something strangely appealing about Geiszler, in his scruffiness and his forwardness (and the very nice green tint of his eyes). Hermann nods, unable to help himself from smiling. He owes Karla a thank you.


	118. snowed in after one night stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that-one-fandom-chick asked:  
> 1, 24, or 67. You choose! (Altho if u choose 24 I just wanna say I immediately imagined Newt as the snowflake maker and hermann the one glaring so bonus points if u reverse this)
> 
>  
> 
> winter prompts:  
> 1: we just had a one-night stand but a massive storm hit so now we’re snowed in, hello awkward it is!

“So,” Newt says. “Uh. You want some orange juice?”

Hermann drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Is there pulp in it?”

“Nope,” Newt says, and shakes the carton. “Pulp-free.”

“I  _only_  like orange juice with pulp in it,” Hermann says, like he’s personally offended the alternative exists and Newt had the gall to offer it to him, and furthermore, that he’s sitting merely a few feet away from it. Newt places the carton back in the fridge and closes the door.

“Okay,” he says, and slips back into his seat. 

The wind outside’s started to howl; the view from Newt’s kitchen window is completely obscured by snow. Newt discreetly refreshes the weather app on his phone, but apparently not discreetly  _enough_ , because Hermann quickly cranes his neck to see and says “Any changes?”

“Hundred percent chance of snow through the night,” Newt sighs, and Hermann makes a noise of mild despair. “Hey, it’s not  _that_ bad,” Newt says, clicking his phone’s power button, and Hermann narrows his eyes.

“Isn’t it?” Hermann says.

The thing is, it  _is_ that bad.

It wasn’t supposed to be. It was supposed to be good. It was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be two colleagues–two friends–enjoying some eggnog (which is actually kind of gross) and Chinese takeout, and alternating between outdoing each other at shouting out the answers to Jeopardy re-runs and making fun of all the straight Christian couples on the Hallmark Channel Countdown to Christmas. Annual December tradition, since they got stuck sharing a laboratory space in their same poorly-funded research institute years and years back and decided (five or so years ago) they might do well with trying to bury the hatchet. It worked. A little too well, maybe. Last night they had Chinese takeout, and they had eggnog spiked with plentyof rum, and then they had a little more eggnog, and then Hermann put his hand on Newt’s knee and things  _progressed_  from there.

And then they woke up with pounding headaches on the floor of Newt’s living room, half-dressed with their limbs tangled up with each other’s, and Hermann couldn’t even bow out of Newt’s apartment gracefully like he wanted to (hickey on his neck, top button from his shirt and his left sock missing, Newt must’ve ripped the former off in a fit of passion while the latter is probably lost beneath the couch or something) because apparently it started  _fucking_ blizzarding overnight and all of the city’s public transport is shut down. (“Blizzarding isn’t a word,” Hermann said in response, grouchy and scowling and pulling off his outerwear venomously, and Newt threw his hands up in frustration.)

And now they’re here, at Newt’s kitchen table, freezing their asses off because Newt’s landlord refuses to fix the heating, and being passive-aggressive about pulpless orange juice, of all things.

(Oh, God, how is this going to affect their work relationship? They share a  _lab_.)

“It’s kinda bad,” Newt agrees. He can’t stop staring at the hickey on Hermann’s neck–Newt did a hell of a number on him last night. Pity he remembers only about fifty percent of it. (He remembers giggling a bunch, and Hermann giggling a bunch, and giving up on trying to take Hermann’s sweater off halfway through, and what Hermann’s wide, thin lips feel like pressed to his skin, and how fucking gentle and romantic sex with Hermann apparently is. The important stuff. The stuff that’s going to haunt Newt’s every waking moment for months to come.) “What do we–” he begins, and then cuts himself off.

“What do we  _what_?” Hermann says.

“What do we…do?” Newt says. “Now, I mean. About…”

Hermann works his jaw.

“Hermann,” Newt says. “We  _banged_ , dude.”

“I’m aware, thank you,” Hermann snaps, flushing. “I simply assumed it was a…one-time thing.”

(Hermann smiled at him when they woke up together–eyes crinkling, soft and sleepy, his arm thrown around Newt’s side. They were covered with the blanket from Newt’s couch. Newt thinks he must’ve dragged it over them at some point during the night. “Hiya,” Newt said, and then he said “Oh,  _fuck_ ,” once he realized it was  _Hermann_ , and Hermann’s smile slipped away real fast, and he started struggling to his feet, clutching at his knee and wincing, searching for his cane and his pants and refusing to look at Newt.)

“A one-time thing,” Newt says. “Yeah, that’s–” He swallows down his strange, surprising disappointment. “Of course that’s what it is.” Hermann didn’t really want to bang him, they were just drunk and Newt was just  _there_ , and Hermann especially doesn’t doesn’t want to be there with Newt right now. He wouldn’t be there with Newt now, if it wasn’t for the freak snowstorm. They wouldn’t have even talked about this–just gone back to snapping at and antagonizing each other like they used to in the Old Days, all of their burgeoning friendship gone up in flames–if it weren’t for the snowstorm.

The problem is that Newt likes Hermann. Newt likes Hermann a lot.

Hermann works his jaw some more. “I see no need for it to affect how we work with each other,” he says.

“Or our friendship,” Newt adds, a little more desperately than he meant to.

“Or our friendship,” Hermann echoes.

Newt licks his bottom lip. “Hey, dude?”

Hermann stares at him. To hell with it, Newt thinks. (Newt likes Hermann a whole lot.)

“What if I kind of… _don’t_ want it to be a one-time thing?” he says.

“Oh,” Hermann says.

“Or just a banging thing,” Newt clarifies. “I want–uh. You know.”

The wind howls a little harder, rattling the kitchen window, and Newt glances quickly in its direction to make sure it isn’t going to fucking shatter or something. It’s why he almost misses Hermann–very carefully, very slowly–reach out across the table and take his hand. “Newton,” Hermann says. “I…also want that.” He smiles tentatively, and rubs his thumb over Newt’s knuckle.

“Okay,” Newt says, and grins so wide it hurts.


	119. getting REPEATEDLY caught under mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> for the winter prompts (when ur done w school ps good luck on finals and all!) number 48!
> 
> winter prompts:  
> 48: we don’t like each other, but we’re at a mutual friend’s Christmas party and we keep getting caught under the mistletoe together

“I think it’s following us around,” Newt jokes weakly, after the third time he’s had to kiss Hermann tonight.  _Had to_ is a little strong.  _Was obliged to according to traditions of a holiday Herman doesn’t celebrate and Newt only half-celebrates_ , maybe, and even then the  _obliged to_ is shaky, because it wasn’t like Newt was opposed to the concept of kissing Hermann to begin with. Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that–at numerous points throughout the night–Newt and Hermann have been caught beneath a branch of mistletoe and were subsequently peer-pressured, by a wolf-whistling crowd of tipsy partygoers, into pecking each other on the lips.

Newt almost passed out the first time: Hermann, red in the face, grabbing him by his tie with one hand and laying one on him was a little too much to handle. (Newt expected a kiss on the cheek at  _most,_ for God’s sake.) He also almost passed out the second time. He thinks he’s managed to keep his cool for the third time so far, but he did give Hermann finger-guns and say  _far out_ afterwards, for some reason. Nerves? Hermann kissed him. He  _kissed_ Newt. Three times. !!!!

“I think someone just decorated verystrategically,” Hermann says, shooting a glare in the general direction of Tendo, who’s decked out in light-up felt reindeer antlers and a candy-cane striped sweater and schmoozing by the punch bowl. He catches Hermann’s eye, lifts his drink in a mock-toast, and waves cheerily.

Hermann’s right, now that Newt thinks about it. All the places they’ve been caught have been their usual spots they lurk in during Shatterdome (aka, Tendo’s) holiday functions in LOCCENT–the dark, deserted corners, the spot right near the door that allows them to sneak away without drawing any attention to themselves, the out-of-sight hallway that leads to the bathrooms. Almost as if it’s on purpose. And knowing Tendo, it’s definitely on purpose, especially since they’re the  _only_ ones who have fallen victim to mistletoe so far tonight.

Newt plays dumb anyway.

“Ha, weird, okay, Mr. Paranoid,” Newt says. He, very casually, looks along the ceiling. Spotting more mistletoe. Just so they can avoid it and all. “Uh, wanna…” There’s a little bunch hanging over the snack table, and Newt is not proud of what he does next. “…get some pretzels?”

“Pretzels?” Hermann says.

Newt squints at the table. “Or…chips. I’m hungry,” he lies. “C’mon.”

He drags Hermann over by the elbow, Hermann only  _very slightly_ resisting. And then–“Mistletoe!” a j-tech to their right exclaims, pointing at the patch of ceiling above Newt and Hermann. Newt and Hermann look up; Newt feigns surprise. “Oh, no!” he says. “Not  _again_. Man, just our luck.” He stares at Hermann in anticipation. “Guess we gotta…?”

The look on Hermann’s face is something Newt can’t place, but all eyes are on them, so Hermann carefully cups Newt’s cheek, leans in, and brushes their lips together. No tongue or anything. Just very, very chastely kisses him, eyes open all the while, short and quick and professional. Newt can smell the (kinda gross) staleness of Hermann’s sweater (when’s the last time he washed it?) and the (also kinda gross) cheap beer he had earlier in the night, and his head spins with it.

His head spins with the kiss, too. (If just  _this_ kind of kiss from Hermann–tame, objectively vanilla–is making him dizzy, what would a real, honest-to-God one do to him?)

“Luck indeed,” Hermann says when they part, strangely flushed but half-smirking. He slides his hand down to Newt’s collar and adjusts it; when Newt doesn’t step back, just sways a little, lips parted, Hermann pulls him in and slots their mouths together again. A real kiss. Quick, but real, and kinda  _dirty_ , tongue slipping into his mouth, teeth bumping a little. 

Hermann’s smug as hell when they part this time.

“ _Wow_ ,” Newt says.


	120. mistaken as couple b/c holiday card

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tubblin asked:  
> 37 PLEASE!
> 
> winter prompts:  
> 37: you jokingly suggest we send out holiday cards together as friends so we do, and now everyone is congratulating us for finally getting together

“This is your bloody fault,” Hermann says.

“My fault?” Newton says. “How is this  _my_ fault? You agreed to it!”

“You’re the one who wanted to send out cards in the first place,” Hermann says. “We had no need to.”

“It was supposed to be funny,” Newton says. “I didn’t think anyone would assume…”

Together, they stare at the text on Newton’s phone from Tendo.  _congrats! about time you kids got hitched._ It’s the last in a steady stream of texts that have been coming in to the both of them all weekend: polite well-wishes from Mako, bewildered ones from each of Hermann’s siblings (ranging from  _why didn’t you tell us?_ to  _when was the wedding?_ to  _what the fuck, Hermann?_ ), a single curt  _Congratulations_. from Newt’s mother, a series of all-caps exclamations from both Newton’s dad and uncle.

“Well,” Hermann says. “People clearly  _did_ assume.”

Holiday cards, Newton insisted. It would be fun. It would be funny. Everyone was sending Newton and Hermann theirs–Tendo’s toddler in a Santa Claus hat, Mako and Raleigh with their arms around each other and smiling on an idyllic beach somewhere, all of their colleagues at the university (though Hermann’s not sure how they found the address to their flat, possibly a faculty directory, Hermann must see about getting them removed from it immediately)–why shouldn’t Newton and Hermann retaliate with their own? Perhaps Newton’d gotten a tad overzealous in the planning (he spent a month knitting them matching sweaters and insisted he hold their cat like a baby for it), and perhaps Hermann got a tad overzealous with the card design (but he found the  _perfect_  computer software for it), and the end result was something far less ironic and far more genuine, but–they never once indicated they were  _together_. Let alone married, like half of them seem to think.

“I mean,” Newton continues, “can you blame them?”

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Easily.”

“Look at it from their perspectives,” Newton says. “We live together, we share a bedroom–”

“Separate beds,” Hermann says quickly (occasional nightmares from the drift, of course, far easier to deal with when your drift partner is a few feet away, and far more cost-effective when it comes to rent as well, those are the  _only_ reasons) and then realizes, “they have no way of knowing we share a bedroom in the first place. And we have different last names.”

“–we spend every fucking waking moment together, neither of us have been on a date in a million years–”

“‘A million years’, what about that guitarist?” Hermann says, and Newton sighs.

“Dude, for the last time, I didn’t  _ask_ him to buy me a drink–why do you care, anyway?”

“No reason,” Hermann says quickly, but he concedes to Newton’s point. “Perhaps the misunderstanding isn’t entirely unfounded, then, but that doesn’t make it…”

Newton’s phone goes off. A phone call, this time. “Oh, God,” he says, looking at the caller ID, “it’s my dad.” He swipes to accept and holds it up to his ear. “Hey, Dad,” he says, weakly.

Hermann can hear Newton’s father’s excited shouts, even off of speakerphone.

“Yeah, that’s the same Hermann,” Newton says. “No, it’s–it’s not–” He’s bright red in the face, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that I  _didn’t_   _tell_  you, it’s that there wasn’t anything–yes–no–last month,” he suddenly blurts out. “We got together last month. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Newton!” Hermann hisses.

Newton covers the receiver. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then uncovers it and forces a loud laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “No, things are great. They’re awesome. Hermann’s awesome. He’s–a real catch.” (Newton makes a face.) “ _No_ , not married yet. I don’t know.”

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann hisses again.

“Wait, gotta go, uh, Hermann needs me. Not like–bye.” Newton hangs up quickly. Hermann crosses his arms.

“Why?” Hermann says.

“I panicked!” Newton says. “He was so excited, and he kept asking to meet you–”

“Which is exactly why you should’ve told him the truth!”

“I’m  _sorry_!” Newton repeats. “I’ve just told him a lot about you, okay.”

“…Why?” Hermann repeats, but suspiciously this time.

“No reason,” Newton says, voice high. He laughs. “Anyway. Uh. Romantic comedy set-up, am I right, dude?” Hermann continues to scowl. “Look, is it that bad that people think we’re together?”

Truthfully, Hermann thinks,  _no_ , but…

“I mean,” Newton continues, and he gets redder. “Look. Hermann. If we’re being honest, cards on the table,  _I_ don’t totally mind if people think it. That we’re together.”

“That is a piss-poor excuse for a love confession and you know it,” Hermann snaps. 

“Oh, fuck off, dude–” Newton says, but Hermann snags him by his stupid hand-knitted Godzilla sweater and kisses him square on the lips.


	121. bedsharing at inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 100 would be great, if you get time/feel inspired by it. Love your writing. x.
> 
> Anonymous said: that winter prompt list! number 100? xxxxxx
> 
> winter prompts:  
> 100: the b&b we’re staying at asked if we wouldn’t mind sharing a room since we know each other and this snow storm has brought in some unexpected guests … one bed … three nights … (bonus! we’re not friends, we barely tolerate each other, but here we are)

The bed and breakfast came highly recommended on whatever online trip-planning software Newton plugged their trip information into a few months back–expensive, family-owned, decorated over-the-top for Christmas, too-friendly staff. Hermann and Newton both hate it, so Hermann assumes it must be charming to most others. The price doesn’t matter, anyway, not since the PPDC is funding the whole ordeal (a long weekend conference, Newton and Hermann handpicked for it on account of having no family in Hong Kong to speak of to miss them in the holiday season), separate bedrooms and all. Or  _allegedly_ separate. That’s how it was when they booked it. Two suites,  _separate_ , one bed for Hermann, one bed for Newton, three long blessed nights of having absolutely nothing to do with each other the moment they finished making their appearance at the center. A far cry from how it is back at the Shatterdome. Hermann was looking forward to it for months.

“Share?” Newton says. “You want us to–?”

“We’re really very sorry,” the woman at the front desk says. “We wouldn’t be asking if we had any other options. But we saw you two were booked at the same time, together, and we have  _so_ many stranded travelers…” She smiles, a  _what can you do?,_ and Hermann’s anxiety (three nights, glued to Newton’s side, sharing a  _bed_ with him) skyrockets through the roof.

“A moment,” he says, and he drags Newton aside to the entrance way.

“So,” Newton says in a low voice. “You think we should do it?” Newton’s in a thick lime-green sweater, a ridiculously oversized hat, and his glasses haven’t yet unfogged from the sudden change in temperature, and it’s  _very_ hard to take him even remotely seriously.

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Hermann hisses.

“It’s not ideal,” Newton says. “Believe me, I’m not fucking ecstatic at the thought of it, dude, but–”

“But  _what_?” 

“Isn’t it kind of a dick move if we don’t?” Newton says. He shrugs, and the pom-pom on the top of his hat wobbles. “Also, they’re offering us free dinner every night if we take it. That’s kinda cool. Saves us money.”

“The PPDC is paying for us regardless,” Hermann points out. “ _Including_ the dinner. I don’t see why I should have to give up my bed just because…” He sighs, and deflates; he supposes he  _is_ being…unkind. It’s amazing what the mere prospect of sharing a bed with Newton–irritating, attractive Newton–does to him.

“Aw, Hermann,” Newton says, grinning, and he elbows Hermann in the side, “where are your feelings of goodwill towards your fellow man and all that shit?”

“Hmph. Alright,” Hermann says. “We can share the bed, but if you snore I’m kicking you to the floor.”

“Look at us,” Newton says. “Bonding already.”

 

“A little kitschy, isn’t it?” Newton says when they’re shown to their room. Singular room.  _A little_ is a vast understatement. There are porcelain snowman and Santa Claus figurines everywhere. A small Christmas tree with multicolored baubles in the corner. Crocheted red-green-white blankets tossed over the backs of chairs and embroidered pillows on top of those. Even if Hermann celebrated the holiday, it’d be overkill. “Looks like someone’s grandma’s living room. Or the start of a holiday slasher flick.” Newton drops his suitcase on the floor and picks up one of the Santa figurines and waves it in Hermann’s face. “This little guy’s gonna come to life in the middle of the night, and–”

“I want a different room,” Hermann says, scowling the shoving the Santa away.

Newton grins and puts the figurine back, strangely unbothered by it all, and then flops face-first onto the bed. The mattress springs and the bedframe creak  _wildly_ , like they’re about to give out on him. Hermann doesn’t have much faith in it holding out for the whole night. “It’s comfy, at least,” Newton says. He rolls to his side and winks at Hermann, patting the spot next to him. “Coming to bed, dear?”

Hermann rolls his eyes, flushing in spite of himself. “Don’t call me dear.”

“Honey,” Newt says. “Sugar. Sweetheart.”

“No,” Hermann says, and Newton laughs.

 

Newton doesn’t snore, but he does something far, far worse: he  _cuddles_.

Hermann wakes in the middle of the night, blinking groggily, with Newton’s arm looped around his waist and Newton’s chest pressed tight to his back, a solid, heavy (soft, very soft) warmth against him. The bed’s not small by any means–it holds both of them comfortably, for all of Hermann’s trepidation, which is why he’s initially so  _confused_ about why Newton felt the need to latch onto him (certainly not space conservation). Then, simply irritated. “Newton,” he hisses, pushing at Newton’s hand. Newton does not budge nor stir. “What are you doing?”

Newton noses against him and tightens his hold, breath ghosting hot down Hermann’s neck. Goosebumps prickle along Hermann’s skin. “ _Newton_ ,” he tries again.

“Shut up,” Newton finally groans, half-asleep. “‘M tired.”

“You’re holding onto me,” Hermann says. “Newton–”

“Goodnight,” Newton says, and wriggles his knee between Hermann’s legs (weight bearing down on Hermann’s good one, thankfully, but effectively trapping him nonetheless). He splays his fingers across Hermann’s chest. “Love you, Hermann.”

Hermann freezes up, but Newton’s gone back to sleep. And, damn him, Newton’s  _comfortable_ , and warm, and Hermann finds he likes being wrapped in Newton’s arms…very much, and already Hermann’s dozing more easily than he has in his entire life. (But Newton can’t have meant what he said. It must’ve been impulse.) Hermann rubs his hand over Newton’s. “Goodnight, Newton,” he murmurs and shuts his eyes, knowing full well how awkward this will be in the daylight but not finding it in himself to care.


	122. misaimed snowball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Newmann 15? Because it could be an AU or honestly could just happen at the Shatterdome lol.
> 
> winter prompts:  
> 15: i’m having a snowball fight with my friend in the park and i hit you instead

It’s a damned awful day for a walk, and Hermann’s not really sure why he bothered venturing outside his flat in the first place–yes, he should be exercising his leg, especially in the colder months when the chill makes it stiff, but surely a day off wouldn’t have hurt. It’s been snowing since the previous evening, on and off again, and a good few inches have piled up, but thankfully someone’s cleared a path in the park. Just enough for Hermann to navigate his way through without issue.

Without issue in  _theory_.

“I really didn’t see you,” Hermann’s mystery assailant says, grinning apologetically as he brushes snow from the front of Hermann’s coat. Moments prior, he’d nearly knocked Hermann into a snow drift with a snowball square to the chest. Crossfire, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. “You came out of nowhere.” He’s short, with oversized glasses and a leather jacket that can hardly be keeping him warm, and his smile nearly knocks Hermann back all over again. (He’s furious, he reminds himself, furious with this rude little man.)

Hermann pushes the man’s hands aside with a scowl and resumes brushing himself clean on his own. “So it’s  _my_ fault you decided to assault me with–”

“That’s not what I said,” the man says, and then pushes  _Hermann’s_ hands aside to take over. “I said I wasn’t expecting you.” He tries to adjust Hermann’s sweater but just untucks it further.

“You implied I was in your way,” Hermann says, shoving him off once more and zipping up his coat with his unoccupied hand, “when you were the one throwing bloody–snowballs at beer bottles.” Like a child. For God knows why.

“Hey, dude,” the man says, “I was just having fun! I said I was sorry.”

“You should learn to be more careful,” Hermann says, scowl deepening.

“Alright, fine. I’ll be more careful. Sorry.” The man shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Hermann a short once-over. “Can I buy you a coffee to make it up to you?”

Hermann startles. “Excuse me?”

“Coffee,” he says. “Or lunch or something. I’m not picky.” Hermann turns on his heels and starts making his way back to his flat. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Home,” Hermann calls back to him.

The man follows, half-jogging until he’s at Hermann’s side, where he slows down and matches him step-for-step. “I’m being serious about coffee,” he says. “I wanna make it up to you.” Hermann says nothing. They walk in silence for a few seconds. “I’m Newt, by the way.”

“Good for you,” Hermann says.

“Do you live nearby?” Newt says.

Hermann ignores the question and slows down til they’re standing still. “You don’t have to make anything up to me,” he says. “You can just–”

“Okay,” Newt interrupts, then clarifies, “want to get coffee just because?” Hermann stares at him. Newt shrugs. “Look. It’s worth a shot,” he says.

“You threw the snowball on purpose, didn’t you?” Hermann says, narrowing his eyes. “To… _flirt_  with me.”

“I saw you walking by and panicked,” Newt says, and smiles sheepishly. “But, hey, it got you to talk to me, didn’t it? So really it was a success.”

“Fine,” Hermann says, because Newt  _is_ nice to look at, even if he is–strange, and his voice is a little high-pitched, and he apparently runs around throwing snowballs at random men; Newt perks up immediately, and looks delighted. “Coffee. But I’m buying my own.”


	123. accidentally falling asleep in snow bank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Could you do 81, 89, or 100? I love your work! 💗
> 
> winter prompts:  
> 89: I’m drunk and fall asleep in a snow bank and you’re the kind stranger yanking me to my feet and lecturing me on how dangerous that is

Newt is a big fan of this snow bank. It’s a nice snow bank. Soft. Quiet. Cozy, even, or at least insulated enough against the wind that he can barely feel how fucking freezing it is outside. He didn’t mean to end up here–he meant to go back home to his apartment, after a New Year’s party where he maybe drank more than he should’ve–but he dropped one of his gloves and tripped when he tried to pick it up and ended up…here. He’s not sure where his glove went. He’s only wearing one. Is it on the path? It’s very comfortable here. He could fall asleep easily.

Something hard pokes his back, and Newt realizes he’s dozed off. “Excuse me,” a prissy voice says above him, all English and stuffy and professorial, “are you alright?”

“’M sleeping,” Newt says.

The hard thing pokes his back again. Newt swats it away. “Fuck  _off_ ,” he says.

“Charming,” the guy says. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t, not in good conscience. You’ll freeze to death.”

“I have a coat,” Newt says. “I’m fine. I’m cozy.” He pushes a little bit of snow under his head. “See? I have a pillow.” The hard thing pokes him again, and Newt finally rolls over with a groan. He squints up, everything blurry and confusing, and he realizes he’s lost his glasses as well as his glove. Hopefully he didn’t leave them at the party. “What do you want?” Something hits his chest. His glasses. “You found them!” he says, delightedly.

“They were in the pathway,” the guy says, and Newt–after a few tries–crams them back on.

“Hel _lo_  there,” he slurs when he can finally fucking see. The guy is professor-looking too, little tweed blazer and round librarian glasses. His nerdy savior. Newt candig it. “What’s up?” The thing the guy’d been poking him with was the end of his cane.

“You’re in a snow bank,” the guy says.

“Am I?” Newt says. He sits up, swaying. “I’m also very drunk, I think. Jesus. Bad idea. I was at a party. I’m Newt, who are you?”

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” the guy says, and then, in a significantly less-stuffy tone, “can you stand on your own?”

“Sure I can. Easy,” Newt says, and stumbles to his feet, landing on Dr. Hermann Gottlieb himself. Dr. Gottlieb scowls at Newt as Newt clings to his sweater for support. He has  _very_ pretty eyelashes, and he smells like tea. Newt can definitely dig it. “No, actually.” He tugs at Dr. Gottlieb’s glasses chain, winding it around his finger. He bats his eyelashes. “Hello.”

“You said that already,” Dr. Gottlieb says.

Newt rests his head on Dr. Gottlieb’s shoulder. “I’m a doctor too, you know,” he says. “Dr. Newt Geiszler. Can I call you Hermann?”

“If you insist,” Hermann sighs. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. Where do you live?”

“In an apartment building,” Newt says, and Hermann pokes his back with a bony finger until he starts marching forward. Everything is very hazy, even with the glasses. Newt’s very dizzy. “I think it’s nearby.”

“You didn’t think to call a cab?” Hermann says, and Newt feels him slip his arm through Newt’s, linking them together. They walk slowly. “Or–didn’t anyone think to call one  _for_ you?” Newt shakes his head. Hermann tsks. “Irresponsible, letting you wander off on your own without a proper coat during a bloody snowstorm.”

“I have a coat,” Newt repeats, offended.

“That scrap of fabric?” Hermann tsks again. “They’d’ve found you tomorrow morning frozen solid.”

“You’re a fucking ray of sunshine,” Newt says. “Where are you taking me, anyway?” He blinks as he looks around. Street lamps. Snowy trees. Still in the park he thinks is near his apartment, then.

“I’m taking you back to my flat–”

Newt grins and waggles his eyebrows flirtatiously. But he’s drunk and aware he doesn’t have stellar control over his facial features right now, so it probably just looks…bad. “Sounds good. You move fast. I like that in men.” Hermann whacks him in the shin with his cane, and Newt yelps. 

“– _and_ you can take my sofa for the night,” Hermann finishes.

“You’re a charitable guy,” Newt mumbles. “Cute and charitable. You do this often? Pick up drunk dumbasses?”

“Never,” Hermann says.

“I’m a special case?” Newt says.

“Yes,” Hermann sighs. “There we go. Here’s the door.” To Newt’s surprise, they’re in front of an apartment complex already.  _Newt’s_ apartment complex. They’re probably neighbors and Newt didn’t even know it! Not that it’s much of a help right now, when he doesn’t even remember what floor he lives on, let alone room number. “Just–” Hermann swipes his little keycard and the door opens automatically with a buzz. “Up the step. Careful, Dr. Geiszler.”

“Newt,” Newt says, and Hermann manhandles him inside.

“Careful, Newt,” Hermann says, and Newt presses his face to Hermann’s shoulder and smiles.

 

Newt wakes up to sunlight streaming through windows in a room that isn’t his on a couch that isn’t his under a  _blanket_ that isn’t his, head aching, mildly nauseous, and to Dr. Gottlieb–Hermann–sitting across from him holding a mug and a bottle of Advil. “Good morning,” Hermann says, and holds both out to him. “Would you like coffee?”

“Oh my God,” Newt says, covering his face with his hands as last night comes rushing back. “I am  _so_ sorry.”

He takes the mug and medicine eventually, only after Hermann coaxes him into it. “I was at a party,” he says, staring into his cup miserably. Hermann makes good coffee. “I didn’t mean–”

“You told me as much last night,” Hermann says, and Newt looks up and sees he’s smiling very, very slightly. It’s very cute. A good look for him. Newt has a terrible feeling he hit on Hermann last night.

“I think I live here,” Newt says, desperate to change the subject (and his face warming up like crazy). “In this apartment complex, I mean. It was…familiar last night.”

“I know,” Hermann says, still smiling. “I recalled how I recognize you–I’ve seen you tending to your garden on the roof. Are you feeling better?”

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” Newt says. “But I didn’t die of hypothermia, which is nice, definitely a plus, thank you for that. My garden?”

“On the roof,” Hermann repeats. “I see you up there quite often. From my window.” Newt looks outside: the complex curves, with a small courtyard (just enough for a tree and a bench) in the middle, and Hermann’s side is taller. There’s a perfect view of the community rooftop garden Newt’s basically adopted as his own (since no one else seems to give a shit). They live in the same complex after all, then.

“You just sit here and watch me, then?” Newt says, and Hermann flushes.

“No!” he says. “Not–”

Newt waves him off, truthfully grateful to no longer be the horrifically embarrassed one. “You do you, dude. I’m not upset. Opposite of it. I’ll put on more of a show next time, now that I know.” He winks; Hermann’s ears go red.

“Er,” Hermann says, and clears his throat. Newt’s nerdy savior. “You’re–a doctor, then?”


	124. mechanic newt (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> if you have the time and the inspiration strikes ya #5 for the winter writing prompts would be so awesome (feel free to make it sexy if ur feelin it cause I cannot stop thinking about sexy mechanic newt)
> 
> winter prompts:  
> 5: your car slid into a snowbank and i’m the mechanic that comes to tow you

Hermann’s lucky, he supposes, that he remembered to grab his cell phone before he headed out. Originally, he wasn’t going to; originally, the trip was only meant to take him ten minutes. Right down the road for some milk. A trip he’s made a dozen times. Though–not a trip he’s ever made in the  _snow_. Not ever in the snow. Certainly not in the snow  _and_ the dark. So it was foolish of him to try, maybe, but he really needed that milk, and it’s such a short trip, and Hermann didn’t think…

“Right off the main road,” Hermann sighs. “Yes, by the exit. I can’t start the engine. I think I must’ve–”

“ _No worries_ ,” the mechanic on the other end says. “ _I’ll be there in, like, twenty minutes. Just chill a bit_.” Then he laughs for several seconds. “ _That was a shitty joke, sorry_.”

Hermann hangs up in mild disgust.

He responds to a few emails as he waits, mostly from students enrolled in his soon-to-begin spring semester courses (no, the textbook is not required reading; yes, attendance counts, they’re adults) and his siblings (his holidays were fine, thank you for the cards), and by the time he’s finished (and by the time all the lasting heat has ebbed away and Hermann’s finally begun to shiver and wish he brought his thick parka) there’s a tow truck  _beeping_  up behind him, and then there’s someone rapping on his window. Hermann breathes a sigh of relief (one step closer to home and bed), before he remembers what a nightmare the mechanic with the high-pitched voice had been over the phone. Maybe they sent someone else.

They didn’t.

“Are you Dr. Gottlieb?” the mechanic says once Hermann’s cracked his door open. He’s in a leather jacket, with a thick multicolored scarf wrapped around most of his face that muffles his voice, and a hat knitted to look like a frog pulled over brown hair. When he tugs his scarf away, Hermann sees thick, square glasses, round cheeks, some days-old stubble. He doesn’t look remotely like any mechanic Hermann’s ever seen before.

Hermann finds his irritation vanishing quickly, for some reason. “I am,” Hermann says. “Are you–?”

“I’m Newt,” the mechanic says, and flashes a smile. “We talked on the phone. C’mon, hop out. I’ll tow you back to my garage and we can see what’s wrong there.” 

Hermann snags the essentials (phone, wallet, keys, cane), and follows Newt through the snowy night to the front seat of his tow truck, and Newt helps him up the little step. He’s got the heat blasting at the highest setting–thank heavens for small mercies. “Five minutes,” Newt tells him with another grin, shutting the door and ducking back outside, and Hermann watches the blurry shape of him swagger off, warmth blooming in his chest that has nothing to do with the heating system.

 

“So,” Newt says, once they’re on their way to his garage. He’s taken off his ridiculous hat, finally, but he’s put on music, which Hermann minds  _far_  more. “What the hell were you doing out here?”

“I needed milk,” Hermann says, half-scowling. “I didn’t intentionally spin out. I must’ve hit a patch of ice.” He stares out the window, at the falling snow. “Are we almost there?”

“Just about,” Newt says. He’s driving slowly, unlike how Hermann was. “You needed milk during a blizzard?”

“I was all out,” Hermann says. “I wanted it for my coffee tomorrow. It was only meant to be a short drive.”

Newt shakes his head. “You’re nuts. You’re lucky you didn’t crash into a tree or something.”

Hermann scowls a little harder. “You know, you don’t look like a mechanic,” he says, as if he means it as an insult. “You’re too–” He shuts his mouth. He doesn’t know what he was going to say. Soft?  _Geeky_? 

“Well. Technically, I’m not  _totally_  one,” Newt says. “It’s my dad’s garage. I help him out during my breaks when I’m not teaching.” He takes one hand off the wheel and holds it out to Hermann, not looking at him. “Dr. Newt Geiszler, biologist.”

“Biologist? Hermann says, and shakes his hand, a little dumbfounded.

“Biologist,” Newt says, and turns a corner. “And some engineering, because it’s fun, thus the…mechanicing. What about you, Dr. Gottlieb, are you–?”

“Physics,” Hermann says. “I’m–physics.”

“Love a good physicist,” Newt says with a wink, and stops the car and exclaims “Cool, this is it!” before Hermann can properly react.

Newt tows Hermann’s car into the garage and shuts the large door so they’re cut off from the cold winds and snow, then shows Hermann over to a little bench not too far away from his work bench. “You can just sit here, Dr. Gottlieb,” he says. “You want coffee or anything? A blanket?”

Newt has begun to strip out of the rest of his winter layers (the leather jacket, the gaudy scarf, his knitted dinosaur-patterned sweater), until he’s in nothing but the glasses, a white tank-top, heavy boots, and cuffed jeans. ( _Tight_  cuffed jeans, Hermann’s subconscious takes pains to point out.) He’s got intricate tattoos creeping down his arms (his strong arms), and grease stains over mostly everything. He’s filthy, really. It’s not…an unattractive look on him. 

Hermann shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. It’s warm enough in here, anyway.

Newt pats his shoulder with another smile. “Cool,” he says, then points to a glass-enclosed room behind Hermann, “the coffee pot’s right in that little break room if you change your mind.” The heat of his hand lingers long after he steps away.

Newt works with a steady, focused ease, singing under his breath all the while, and Hermann is transfixed by him–by the sturdy clench of his thick fingers around his tools, the way the denim pulls over his ass as he bends over and pokes around under the hood of Hermann’s car, the smear of dirt and grease and sweat on his muscles as he strains to tote things about the room (gasoline, antifreeze, windshield wiper fluid, just in case, he tells Hermann). (He doesn’t look it, but he  _is_ muscled under there, and  _strong_ , too, in a way that makes Hermann think Newt could lift him with ease. Lift him, press him to the wall, pin his hands above his head and stain him with grease and oil as he–)

“Everything looks like it’s fine,” Newt calls over his shoulder. “Just a dead battery. I’ll get you out of here in a few minutes. I won’t charge you for it, don’t worry, I wasn’t doing anything tonight anyway.”

Hermann tears his eyes away from Newt’s ass, cheeks burning, his slacks unusually tight. (Hermann needs to start dating again.) Hermann clears his throat. “Oh?” he says. “That’s very kind of you.”

Newt turns around, hand on his hip, his tank top riding up. Hermann gets an eyeful of his stomach and the tattoos that stretch there, too. “’S cool,” he says. He looks at Hermann searchingly; he must’ve heard the little hitch in Hermann’s voice. Hermann folds his hands over his lap. “You, uh, wanna call whoever’s waiting back home and let them know not to worry, or…?”

“I haven’t got anyone back home,” Hermann says quickly. “Or–anyone, in general. Just me.”

“Ha! Okay,” Newt says. “That’s. Good to know.” Newt’s tongue darts out across his lips, gaze drifting lower and lower. He doesn’t seem–averse, to Hermann’s not-so-subtle arousal.

Hermann takes his chance. “It was  _very_ good of you to come to my rescue,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes. “I feel as if I ought to thank you, somehow.”

“What do you have in mind?” Newt stammers.

 

Newt’s arms  _are_  strong enough to lift him, one-handed, even, and his tattoos (stretched across the entire upper half of his body, from forearms to biceps to pectorals to his pleasing love handles) ripple each time he thrusts up into Hermann, his muscles straining and flexing along with them. “How’s that feel, Dr. Gottlieb?” he pants in Hermann’s ear. “Good? You want it a little harder? Yeah?”

“Yes,” Hermann gasps, “it’s Hermann, call me–”

“Uh-huh.” Newt hoists him up higher and licks over the skin of his neck, fingers smearing grease over Hermann’s forearms, the skin of his thigh. (He insisted on cleaning off the other hand before working those thick fingers into Hermann and stretching him open, but Hermann wouldn’t have minded, frankly, he would’ve  _loved_ it, loved how filthy it would’ve made him feel, but Newt is a gentleman.) “Jesus, fuck–I never–I don’t really go around–” Newt’s breathing hot over Hermann’s skin as he babbles incoherently, and Hermann shuts his eyes and rubs against him encouragingly. “You didn’t have to–”

“I wanted to,” Hermann says, and he drags his nails down Newt’s back. (What must Newt think of him? Hermann doesn’t go around seducing random handymen. He doesn’t part his legs for every handsome mechanic who crosses his path. But Newt,  _Newt_ , there’s something about him, with his tattoos, and his glasses, and his little smile, and he was so gentle when he lifted Hermann and pushed into him, kept asking after his leg and his hip, so willing when Hermann cornered him against his car and nipped at his earlobe and said how terribly skilled Newt is, what a big strong handsome man he is, how good he is with those hands, how he should show Hermann what  _else_ he can do with them.) “Yes, darling,” he breathes, “a little faster–”

“Darling?” Newt laughs, choked off. “We barely fucking know each other, dude.” He rubs a thumb over Hermann’s nipple, smearing more grease, and Hermann watches him through half-cracked eyelids, chest heaving.

“Does it matter?” Hermann says. He’d  _like_  to know Newt, which he thinks counts.

“Nope,” Newt says, and picks up the speed of his thrusts, grunting each time his hips slam against Hermann’s ass. “Oh, shit,” he moans, “oh, that’s–this is great. This is awesome. Let’s do this again some time.  _Wow_.”

“Stop talking,” Hermann orders, and Newt–red-faced, sweating–nods and kisses him messily.

 

Hermann slips Newt his phone number before he goes home the next morning, right into the back pocket of his tight jeans with a wink, because Hermann has been feeling uncharacteristically– _bold_ , the past day. (Newt was a gentleman in all respects, and kindly gave Hermann the futon in his break room to wait out the storm.) Newt’s got a fierce hickey blooming on his neck below his stubble, and his hair is mussed and tangled even hours after their rendezvous.

“Come back any time you’d like,” he tells Hermann with a wide, dazed grin on his face, hand over the pocket.

“I’ll be sure of it,” Hermann says.


	125. new year's eve kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> niolachein asked:  
> listen. 21 on that prompt list was MADE for newmann
> 
> Anonymous said: For the winter writing prompts please do either 21, 36, or 37 whichever one speaks to you. Thanks so much!
> 
> 21: we’re arguing when the ball drops on new year’s eve, and decide to kiss and shit i don’t think i hate you anymore

“Seems a bit gauche, doesn’t it?” Hermann says. “A party, in the midst of…”

“Certain worldwide annihilation,” Newton says. “The end of the world as we know it.”

“Yes,” Hermann says. “I suppose.”

Newton tops off Hermann’s red solo cup with the questionable contents of the little flask he stashed in his inside pocket; Hermann glares, but Newton merely shrugs and screws the lid back on. “What else are we gonna do?” he says. “Besides, we’ve got–how many days ‘til the next one?”

Hermann stares at the combination of sickly blue vodka and lemon soda in his cup and recalls the numbers he scrawled across his board hardly four hours earlier. “Five,” he says. “Five days.” (Not even a week. The attacks are getting closer together.)

“Five whole days,” Newton says, considerably more optimistic. “We can afford a break or two.” He knocks his cup against Hermann’s companionably. “‘I feel fine,’” he half-sings. Newton’s wearing a gold-and-silver striped party hat that’s dangling almost entirely off his head, a feather boa with bits of sparkling tinsel woven throughout, large plastic glasses with  ** _2025_  **written across the top balanced with his eyeglasses. He looks ridiculous. He tried to force a boa and party glasses on Hermann too, which Hermann politely turned down, though he did accept a party hat. He’s not sure where Newton found them.

“Can we?” Hermann says.

Newton reaches over and plucks at the elastic band of his hat, and Hermann winces when it hits his skin. “Lighten up,” Newton says. “New Year’s Eve! It’s supposed to be fun. You should be having fun. Stop killing my vibe.”

“Five days,” Hermann says.

Newton unscrews the lid of his flask again and says nothing. It’s just the two of them, in the lab; they’d been at the party further down the hallway crowded with other Shatterdome personnel (that’s where Newton had covertly snuck out the vodka) up until twenty minutes ago, when Hermann made a break for it to get some more work done and Newton followed. They can have a party with just the two of them, Newton insisted, forget everyone else, and then he dimmed the lights in the lab to their lowest setting and stretched out on the lab couch and ran his mouth off in a way that ensured Hermann would get nothing done whatsoever. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” he repeats, finally. “There might not be another one, you know?”

“Morbid,” Hermann tsks, and Newton snorts.

“You’re the one who called the party,” he lowers his voice in an approximation of Hermann’s accent, “ _gauche_ in the first place.” Then he suddenly sits up. “Hey, ten minutes to midnight.” He nods at the clock above his work desk. “I bet I could steal a bottle of champagne for us without Tendo noticing.”

Tendo Choi had been three sheets to the wind when they left; Hermann doubts he’d notice if Newton stole a whole table. Hermann nods, and Newton gets–slightly unsteadily–to his feet and scurries out.

He’s back in a matter of minutes, shutting the lab door behind him to cut them off from the party (which has begun spreading further down the hall) and singing  _Auld Lang Syne_  at the top of his lungs. He’s getting half of the words wrong. Including the refrain. “Mission was a success,” he declares, and waves the pilfered bottle dramatically over his head. “What are we supposed to do again? For tradition? Do we smash it?” He adjusts the bottle in his grasp like a baseball bat and swings it, ominously, in the direction of the wall.

“No,” Hermann says, and Newton falls back next to him on the sofa, face planting into the lone, ragged throw pillow they keep there. His eyeglasses and the 2025 glasses make ominous cracking sounds. “That’s boats. For, er, maiden voyages.” Newton looks up and peers at him skeptically. His face is bathed an eerie green in the light of his specimen tank. “We’re only meant to drink it.”

“That’s boring,” Newton says. He worries at the foil of the bottle. “I’m gonna smash it anyway. New traditions.”

“Please don’t,” Hermann sighs, knowing full well he’ll be left to clean up the shards of glass and sticky alcohol residue, but Newton merely grins at him and swings the bottle ‘round some more.

“Right against the wall,” he says, and then startles; his wristwatch beeps with the timer he set for one minute to midnight.

Hermann’s not sure what possesses him to say what he says next. He’s not had nearly enough to drink to excuse it. “I suppose it’s a good thing we’re changing tradition tonight,” he says. “Tradition would also have it that we–”

“That what?” Newton cuts in, with an expression that Hermann can’t quite read.

“Well. People are meant to kiss at midnight, aren’t they?” Hermann says, half-question, half-challenge. (Hermann is not blind. He does not miss Newton’s lingering glances across the lab, nor is he fooled by the string of excuses Newton uses–chalk on his blazer, something on his cheek, don’t worry, Newt will get it–to touch him. Newton touches him constantly.)

Newton licks his lips, taken aback, then grins again. “I don’t know,” he says, “ _are_ they? Have you been scoring every New Year’s without me knowing?”

“No,” Hermann huffs. “I only meant–people do it. Normally. I’m aware it’s a tradition.”

“They do,” Newton agrees. He’s got glitter across his cheek, probably shed from his 2025 glasses. He leers. “Hermann, you could just  _say_ if you wanted to kiss me.”

“I’m not–”

“I’d understand,” Newton says. “I’m hard to resist.”

“Newton–”

“–you don’t have to make up excuses–”

Newton’s wristwatch beeps again–midnight. There are cheers down the hall. Hermann pulls Newton in by the ends of his cheap boa and kisses him hard. 

“You were serious,” Newton says when they part. He looks dazed. He didn’t smash the bottle. Down the hall, people are singing. “You actually–”

Hermann smooths his hands over Newton’s untidy collar. “Very serious, I’m afraid.”

“Wow,” Newton says. “Wow! Okay.” He’s grinning again, and he–to Hermann’s surprise–catches Hermann’s hands and laces their fingers together. “You mean you…?”

Hermann cannot bring himself to smile back. Five days. Not even a month after the last attack. After it, Hermann suspects it won’t even be two weeks. (In another lifetime, he and Newton might’ve had the time; in another lifetime, they wouldn’t even have met. Is it selfish to be grateful for the apocalypse if it gave him Newton?) But Newton–with his flask, and his silly hat, his strong hands and his glances and his thin excuses to touch–is so happy before him, and Hermann cannot bring himself to smile, but he especially cannot bring himself to disappoint the man he loves. He wraps his arm around Newton’s waist and kisses him again. “Yes,” he sighs against his lips. “Yes, Newton, of course I do. I always have.”

Newton plucks the elastic of his party hat again and bumps their noses together. “Lighten up,” he laughs, far too observant (or perhaps Hermann is simply being far too unsubtle). “We have time.”

“Not enough,” Hermann says. “Not–”

“We have time,” Newton says, firmly, then he kisses Hermann just as firmly, and Hermann lets himself believe it, if only for the moment.


	126. cuddling for warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geniusbee asked:  
> 44\. i’m the friend who is constantly cold and you’re the friend who is constantly hot so you offer to snuggle with me when the power goes out" PLS i live for personal-heater-newton-geiszler

“You’d think they’d have–generators, or something,” Newton says. “Place this fucking big and important.” He tucks his hands deeper into his hooded sweatshirt–he’s pulled his arms from the sleeves and wrapped them around himself, giving off the appearance of a large, scruffy, swaddled infant–and pouts. “Super high-tech solar-charged space heaters. Anything.”

Hermann attempts to voice his agreement, but his teeth are chattering too hard for him to speak. He nods instead.

“How does an entire Shatterdome lose power, anyway?” Newton says.

Hermann shrugs. He wishes he had another blanket. Anchorage was cold enough even before the power outage; now, it’s nearly unbearable. (Of all the times for them to be lent out to another science division for a month.) Newton, at least, is helping somewhat, even if it’s just distracting Hermann from the cold with his  _loud_  presence. Not ten minutes after the lights’d gone out, when Hermann had been plunged into darkness in his temporary Shatterdome bunk, Newton was pounding on his door and cursing up a storm and pushing his way in to bundle Hermann up on the bed.

“Fucking sucks,” Newton says. He nudges Hermann’s ankle with the tip of his boot. “You all good?” Hermann nods. Newton squints at him. (At least, Hermann thinks he squints. They’ve lit one of Hermann’s contraband scented candles and set it on his small side table, and for their only light source, it’s a pretty poor one.) “Need another blanket?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, but it comes out rather pathetically.

In an instant, Newton’s working his arms back into his sleeves and opening them wide. “Alright, dude,” he says, and pats his chest. “Come here.”

Hermann stares at him.

Newton smiles. “Come here,” he repeats. Hermann inches, tentatively, towards Newton, trembling badly, and Newton grows impatient quickly and throws his arms about him, bringing them flush together. “Fix the blankets,” he orders, and Hermann obeys, adjusting them so the thick quilts are over both of their laps. Newton tightens his arms. “There,” he says, voice low, breath ghosting over the side of Hermann’s neck, body solid and soft and strong. His nose bumps against Hermann’s. He smells like aftershave. “Better?”

Even when Newton’s cold, he’s still warmer than Hermann, still manages to radiate a warmth–his arms, his chest, the tips of his fingers–that seeps through Hermann’s layered sweaters and wool underthings. Hermann’s shivering subsides in a matter of seconds. “Far better,” he confesses. He expects Newton to release him, to move away from him, but he does neither.

“Good,” Newton says, lenses of his glasses glinting in the candlelight. He slides the fingers of one hand up to cup the back of Hermann’s head. Hermann parts his lips in surprise. 

“Newton–” he begins, pressing a hand to Newton’s back, but Newton presses closer still (so close, nearly intertwined with each other) and noses at his neck. 

“Wanna make out?” Newton says.

Hermann startles. “Excuseme?”

Newton lets out a (warm) huff of laughter. “Do you wanna make out?” he repeats, and strokes up through Hermann’s hair. “For professional reasons.” He breathes out again. “So you don’t freeze to death and I don’t have to find a new lab partner.  _Obviously_.”

Hermann mulls it over. Newton wriggles his other hand under the layers of Hermann’s sweaters and button-down and traces his fingers, very persuasively, in a circle over his skin, warming his cool skin. “Yes,” Hermann says quickly, and Newton smiles as he kisses him.

They don’t stop, not when Hermann is so hot he has to peel off his sweaters, not when the lights flicker back on, not even when the heating system jolts back to life and they kick the blankets to the floor. It’s the warmest Hermann’s ever been.


	127. sickfic (feat. sick newt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If it hasn’t already been requested, 66 would be fab! I’m a greedy goblin for fluffy Newmann sickfics. ❤️
> 
> 66: you’re sick and I feel bad because I’m pretty sure i gave it to you, so I bring you some of my great grandmother’s soup and watch movies with you

There’s a nasty bug going around the Shatterdome–flu strain, in Newt’s expert biologist opinion. For all Newt’s general lack of hygiene, he  _is_ very conscientious about germs (he fucking hates being sick, hates how gross it makes him feel, no thank you), and he usually manages to survive these kinds of things unscathed. Just stocks up with an arsenal of hand sanitizer and the Lysol that, usually, resides in Hermann’s bottom desk drawer for easy access in threatening Newt when he gets a little too loose with where he puts his specimens, and ignores everyone who’s got even a runny nose.

And then Hermann got sick.

Probably a calculated move on his part, the bastard–getting sick  _just_ to spite Newt. He spent two days wheezing and coughing and sneezing around the lab and shouting in a hoarse, nasally voicebefore Newt finally snapped, threw his protective gloves to the ground, and steered Hermann out and to his bunk by the shoulders. (“Get some fucking  _sleep_ ,” he begged, tucking him into bed aggressively as Hermann coughed out protests. “What do you need? Tissues? You want tissues?”)

If Newt is overly concerned about illnesses, Hermann is overly blasé. Newt’s sure he would’ve wasted away at his chalkboard if he hadn’t intervened. And he needs Hermann, for  _strictly_ world-saving reasons, obviously, just can’t do it alone, which is why he dipped into his own sick days to take care of the guy. (There’s medical, obviously, but if you want something done right, do it yourself and all.) It was all basic stuff–bringing Hermann food, keeping him warm and comfy, forcing him to take ibuprofen and cough drops (fluffing up his pillows, reading aloud old research to him, tenderly stroking back his hair and humming as he’d fall into uneasy sleep…). Standard, normal behavior between lab partners. 

So of fucking  _course_ Newt gets sick barely a week afterwards. That’s what he gets for being a decent human being.

He lies alone in agony in bed for the first day, eating shitty packaged junk food, downing more cold medicine than strictly healthy, and cursing Hermann’s name and entire existence; the second day, there’s a careful knock at his door, and Newt blows his nose and wheezes out “It’s unlocked.”

Hermann edges in awkwardly.

“Hello, Newton,” he says. He’s twisting his free hand in the hem of his sweater. “Can I…?”

He’s looking at the small empty bit of space on the edge of Newt’s bed, currently covered with used tissues and cough drop wrappers. Newt pushes everything into the trash can on the floor and nods. “Come on in,” he says. Hermann shuts the door carefully behind him and, to Newt’s surprise, eases himself down on the newly free spot. He’s holding a small tote bag that he sets at his feet along with his cane.

“Hello,” he says again.

“Already said that, bud,” Newt says, and sneezes into the crook of his elbow. Hermann winces.

“How are you feeling?” he says.

Newt stares at him.

“Right,” Hermann says.

“You need something?” Newt says, digging another cough drop out of the bag. It’s almost empty. Maybe he can guilt Hermann into getting him some more. “Come to yell at me for leaving samples out? Can you hear me sneezing down the hallway? My sincerest apologies, Dr. Gottlieb.”

“I’ve brought soup,” Hermann blurts out.

Newt fumbles the cough drop bag in surprise. “…Soup?”

Hermann pulls a small Tupperware container out of his tote bag and sets it down on Newt’s lap. It’s warm. “Soup,” he repeats, lamely. “And–” He sets a stack of DVDs (not even Blu-Ray, Hermann really  _is_ a vintage guy) down next to it. “Er. Some television shows. And movies.” 

Newt’s still not really sure why Hermann’s here, but he starts poking through the stack anyway. “You have a  _lot_ of documentaries about NASA,” he says. “And Alan Turing. And–” He pulls out no less than three BBC miniseries of Jane Austen novels; the box for  _Pride and Prejudice_ (1995) looks particularly well-worn.

Hermann snatches the stack back. “Do I?” he says, pink spreading across his cheeks, and Newt is struck–out of nowhere–with the thought that Hermann is  _kinda cute_.

Newt averts his eyes quickly. “Tragically,” he says, “my laptop doesn’t have a CD-ROM, so…”

“Ah,” Hermann says. He tips the DVDs back into the tote bag, and then clears his throat and taps at the lid of the Tupperware. “I made this,” he says. “Er. It’s an old recipe. My grandmother’s, I believe. I thought–” He colors more deeply. “My mother would make it for me when I was sick, as a child. I thought you might like it.”

“Holy shit,” Newt says, because Hermann made him  _soup_ , and top secret Gottlieb family recipe soup at that. Where did he get the ingredients? How badly did he have to harass the mess hall employees before they let him use the kitchen? (To say nothing of the mental image of Hermann Gottlieb as a child. Newt always just pictured him springing forth, fully-formed, with a bad haircut and poor-fitting slacks like some sort of unfashionable Athena, and he’s having a hard time picturing anything else. Hermann, but slightly shrunk down, maybe. Rolling his r’s as a toddler.) “Thanks, dude.”

Hermann nods stiffly. “It’s the least I can do for you,” he says. “Considering.”

“Considering?”

Hermann shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “It is my fault you’re ill, after all. Since you–well.” 

Newt laughs, but it turns into a hacking cough that Hermann winces all the way through. “Ah, it’s cool, I’m not pissed or anything,” he says, voice hoarser than before. Yesterday, yes, Newt was pissed. Five minutes ago, Newt was pissed. Now, with a shy Hermann on his bed (his  _bed_ , wooee, under any other circumstances Newt would be making so many moves on him right now) offering up homemade soup and dorky documentaries, Newt can’t even muster up mild annoyance. “This is–really nice of you, Hermann. I mean it. Thank you.” He smiles. Hermann looks away quickly this time, down at where he’s folded his hands in his lap.

“Mm,” Hermann says, and picks at a hole in his slacks. Newt pokes his hip to get his attention, and scoots over a little. Hermann blinks at him. “Yes?”

“Get in here,” Newt says. “Get comfy, come on.”

“But you’re–”

“Yeah, I had exactly what you’ve  _already_ had,” Newt says. “You can’t get it again. I think. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not thatkind of doctor.” Hermann quickly wipes the skeptical look off his face, and Newt–after shoving the Tupperware of soup temporarily back at Hermann–starts digging around in his blankets for his laptop. It’s in here  _somewhere_. When Hermann doesn’t immediately cuddle up with him, Newt pokes his hip again. “Get  _comfy_ , Hermann. We can stream whatever you want. Or play cards.” And then, a little desperately, “Please. I’m bored as fuck here.”

Hermann casts a long look at the door before sighing in defeat, toeing off his Oxfords, pulling his legs up onto the mattress, and easing in next to Newt. Not quite entirely under the bedspread, but it’ll do. “Only for a short while,” he tells Newt, handing him the Tupperware once more. “I really must catch up on the work I missed.”

“Uh-huh,” Newt says, grinning. “Get the light, will you?”

Hermann’s not particularly warm, nor is he particularly soft (Newt’s taken one of Hermann’s elbow to the gut before, and he’s a  _sharp_  bastard), but Newt–somehow–feels twice as comfortable already. If Newt lets their sides press together, rests his hand on Hermann’s forearm, subtly hooks his ankle over Hermann’s, then he thinks he’s allowed. He’s  _sick_. He’s in agony. (And Hermann doesn’t seem to mind; he way-less-subtly sneaks his arm around Newt and settles his head on his shoulder in retaliation, and Newt’s heart skips a pathetic little beat.)

He doesn’t bother waking Hermann when Hermann falls asleep twenty minutes into a Doctor Who episode, just shuts his laptop and joins him.


	128. cat dads newt and hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> intellectualpencil asked:  
> Hi! it's me again, the person who named their cat after Newton. Just wanted to share a thing that happened today I let him out and like 20 min later an older gentleman calls me to say that my dumbass of a kitten had followed him home. I had to drive over there to get him (he was fine btw, the man was really nice and even gave him some food). But like, newmann au where Hermanns cat runs away and attractive stranger Newt takes care of the kitten until Hermann comes to get him.
> 
> Anonymous said: i hc that 1 of many reasons hermann loves cats is bc they’re like tiny lil mathematicians!! calculating angles n trajectory before they jump, evaluating the way things move etc. no-kaiju au hermann has 2 clever cats n finds out that newt loves cats too, so they kind of hook on to that as a small talk prompt so they don’t kill each other. but one day herms has to drop smth off @ newts n finds out his cat is The Most Stupid Orange Boy Ever bc like what did he expect. ofc he loves them both anyway.

Hermann’s never been the type for pets, not even when he was a child. Nor has he ever been the type for caring for really any living thing. He’s not the  _nurturing_ type. He had a small terrarium with a turtle as a child (a birthday gift from a relative who’s long dead at this point) and kept a houseplant for a month (a housewarming gift from an overenthusiastic neighbor in the flat next door), but his sister claimed ownership of the turtle when he went off for university and he hasn’t seen it since, and the plant quickly withered and died from lack of natural sunlight. 

But the winter months always hit Hermann the hardest (seasonal depression compounded on top of  _regular_ depression compounded on top of Hermann’s semi-self-inflicted aching loneliness), and moving across an ocean and even further away from everything he knows is hardly helping, which is why his new therapist suggested he get a pet. An emotional supportpet, he thinks they’re called. Something for Hermann to look after and have as his companion so he doesn’t spend every moment he’s not lecturing at the nearby university staring out his bedroom window at the ice and the frost and the snow and contemplating his own existence and the aforementioned aching loneliness.

So Hermann got a cat. It was either that, or try to make friends, and he’s never been good at making friends either.

It’s a nice little cat, a small grey-and-white tabby, and Hermann took a shine to it immediately at the local humane society when it peered through the cage at him with big brown eyes and mewed. If Hermann were another man, he might say he took a shine to it because it was  _cute_.

It’s a clever cat, and fairly easy to co-habitat with, too. Hermann feeds it twice a day (morning, before lecturing, and evening, after lecturing) and buys it a scratching post and toys so it doesn’t ruin his furniture. In return, the little cat sometimes curls up on his lap as he grades assignments and on the great empty space in Hermann’s bed every night when Hermann lays down to sleep. Often it will lick Hermann’s hand, as if it’s trying to groom him, or present its plush mouse toys to Hermann as gifts in return for a head scratch. Hermann’s rather fond of it, to his immense surprise. He thinks it’s fond of him.

It’s why he’s near frantic now. He had his front door propped open for a single moment–just long enough to balance his cane with his grocery bags–and his cat took the chance and bolted past him down the hallway. By the time Hermann gathered his bearings and tore after it, it was completely gone. No way of telling where it may be, whether it ran up or down the staircase, whether it ducked into the elevator with another renter, whether it’s even still in the complex.

Hermann didn’t even  _name_ the bloody thing yet. How is he supposed to call for it?

He heats up a miserable dinner of leftover pasta and considers what to do next. His cat hasn’t a name, but it does have a collar with Hermann’s cellular number and name on it (suggested by the humane society, and Hermann, ever paranoid, was all too happy to go along with it). If someone finds his cat, they’ll surely call him. He hopes.

There are no phone calls through dinner. Hermann is too worried to grade the stack of assignments cluttering up his kitchen table and spends the evening staring out the window at the ice, and the frost, and the snow…

His cell phone rings; Hermann answers it immediately. “Hello?” he says.

“Uh, Hermann Gottlieb?” someone says.

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Yes, that’s me. Hello.”

“I think I found your cat.”

 

Newton, as the man on the other end of the phone introduces himself, lives a mere two floors below Hermann (Hermann is out the door and in the elevator before he’s even hung up) and found Hermann’s cat wandering the ground floor when he came home from work. Also at Hermann’s university, to Hermann’s surprise, but biology. (Newton is  _very_ talkative; he learns a lot aout him very, very quickly.) He hadn’t even meant to take it home, he explains, it just sort of…followed him.

“Maybe he smelled my cat on me,” he laughs, once he’s shown a still-frantic Hermann into his flat. It’s messy and a little cramped, with coffee mugs and open textbooks and half-finished crochet projects strewn about, movie posters and anatomical diagrams and sketches of plants plastered up all over the (lime green) walls. Messy and cramped, and somehow immensely, and strangely, appealing.

Newton himself is strangely appealing, too. He’s about Hermann’s age, short and scruffy, with tattoos and pierced ears and thick glasses, but he smiles brilliantly at Hermann, touches his shoulder and back companionably as he steers him into his sitting room, has a loud laugh that makes Hermann feel warm and pleasant.

(Newton, Hermann admits to himself, is  _also_ cute.)

“This your little guy?” Newton says, picking up Hermann’s cat from his dingy couch. He scratches behind its ears, and it starts purring and nuzzling Newton’s chest immediately.

It is, indeed, Hermann’s grey and white tabby cat. “That’s him,” Hermann sighs. “I really am sorry about this.”

Newton smiles. “It’s fine, dude. He and my cat were chilling.” He nods back to the couch, where a fat orange and white cat is chewing on one of the tassels of Newton’s pillows. Hermann almost hadn’t seen it. “He’s such a dumbass,” Newton says, looking at the fat cat fondly, and then turns his smile on Hermann again. “Anyway, wanna stay for a bit?”

Hermann blinks in mild bewilderment. “Stay?” he says.

Newton has not stopped scratching Hermann’s cat behind the ears. “I just made a pot of coffee,” he says. “I have beer, too. Or,” he starts talking faster, clearly embarrassed, “you can just go if you want, obviously, sorry, you don’t have to–”

“I’d like coffee,” Hermann says. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Ha! Cool!” Newton says. “Lemme–” He thrusts Hermann’s cat back at him. “Get comfortable. I’ll be right back. Half and half? Sugar? Coffee, I mean, how do you want it?”

“Black,” Hermann says, holding his purring cat with one hand. “No sugar.”

Newton shoots him two thumbs up and scurries off into his kitchen, and Hermann eases himself down onto the sofa next to the fat orange cat. “What an odd little man,” he says to it. It blinks at him, then continues chewing on the pillow happily.

Hermann can’t seem to stop smiling. He catches sight of the window (nearly obscured by gaudy curtains and window gel clings that are five holidays out of season), and–for the first time in weeks–can’t seem to bring himself to care about the dreary grey winter, either.

 

Hermann leaves Newton’s flat two hours later, warm, happy, his cat tucked under his arm and Newton’s cell phone number (signed with a long string of  _x’s and_ o’s) tucked into his shirt pocket, a dinner date looming on his horizon.

(He moves in with Newton a year later.)


	129. touch starved hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Touch-starved Hermann prompt: After a succestful experiment in the lab, Newt goes and gives Hermann a big, warm hug. Unused to the contact, Hermann is so startled that he tears up. But Newton, after his own startlement dies down, is determined to make Hermann more accustomed to the fine art of human contact.

When it happens, Hermann nearly breaks his chalk.

One moment, he’s writing away at his board, lost in thought, Newton humming and throwing things about and providing a running vocal commentary on his latest experiment (something with acid and neutralized kaiju blood, Hermann typically tunes Newton out when he goes on and on about his projects, even if it leaves him feeling mildly guilty), the next moment Newton shouts “ _Ha!”_ and there are arms being flung around Hermann’s waist from behind. (Strong arms, Hermann’s malfunctioning brain points out, tattooed arms, Newton’s arms, Newton is hugging him, why is Newton hugging him?)

“It worked,” Newton says, audibly gleeful, and he hugs Hermann to him so tight that his nose brushes the short hairs at the back of Hermann’s neck, and Hermann can feel his hot breath (inhaling and exhaling rapidly, Newton is excited, Newton is strong, Newton is warm, Newton is hugging him), “thank  _fuck_ it worked, I did  _not_ want to have to do that all over again.”

Hermann does not break his chalk, but he does drop it. He watches it bounce from the wooden ledge to the floor, where it  _does_ snap in two; belatedly, Hermann realizes his vision is fogged over. Blurry. (Hermann is–why is he–?)

He sniffles, unable to help himself, and Newton drops his arms like he’s been burned. “Hermann?” he says. Hermann sniffs again, eyes stinging, and Newton touches his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Hermann says, and rubs at his eyes with the shirt cuff of one shaky, chalk-dusted arm. The fabric comes back wet. “I’m not sure–er.” His face is hot with humiliation. He can’t even bring himself to turn and  _face_  Newton.

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Newton says. He sounds genuinely apologetic. “I wasn’t–I won’t do that again. No touching. It’s fine. We’re good. Yeah?”

Newton’s never touched him before, so it’s not as if this is a  _frequent_ occurrence, certainly not one Hermann’s grown so used to that it would be a hardship without, but the prospect of Newton never touching him again is not something Hermann wants to consider. “No,” Hermann says quickly, and spins on his heels. “It’s fine. Don’t–” Newton takes a step away; Hermann takes a lunging step forward and snags Newton’s wrist with his free hand. “Please don’t,” he says.

“You good, dude?” Newton says, eyeing him cautiously. He doesn’t try to pull his hand away.

“My mother and father,” Hermann begins, face growing hotter, “were not the most–affectionate, when I was a child. I’m not accustomed to–well.”

“Oh,” Newton says. “ _Oh_. Oh, Hermann.” He closes the gap between them and pulls Hermann into his arms once more, palms planted firmly at his lower back, face slotted into the crook of his neck, and Hermann clings back and breathes.

 

Newton makes a conscious effort to touch him after that, in the lab, over meals, as they walk the long hallways back to their bunks every night. Often it’s small things (gentle brushes of hands or a tap on his shoulder to get his attention, a companionable pat goodnight, steering him along beside him with an arm flung carelessly over his shoulders), less often–but more excitingly–it’s the occasional hug when something’s gone right, fingers laced together as they fill out paperwork, Newton’s hand lingering on his knee under a table. (For professional reasons. It’s strictly  _professional_.)

It takes them a while to work up to the latter ones. Days. Weeks. Hermann does not mind the wait. It’s…easier, this way. Not too much at once. “It’s catch up,” Newton tells him one night as they sit together on the lab couch, Hermann leaning heavily on Newton, with Newton’s arm curled comfortably round his back. Newton smells like stale coffee and formaldehyde and the instant ramen he spilled on his shirt at lunch. It should be a disgusting combination, frankly, but Hermann does not mind it. “For everything you missed in your shitty childhood.”

“I never said I had a bad childhood,” Hermann says, though it is, in fact, true. (He makes an effort to not talk much about his childhood for that very reason, but Newton is very perceptive.)

Newton rubs at his hip. Warmth blooms up Hermann’s neck. This is far more…intimate than what he’s used to with Newton. Far  _less_ professional. “You implied it,” Newton says.

“How did–how did I imply it?” Hermann says, and Newton begins rubbing his thigh. “Er.” Hermann clears his throat. “Newton.”

Newton’s eyes (hazel, Hermann’s always liked them) are lingering over his mouth. “Have you ever been kissed, Hermann?” Newton says. His other hand–the one not currently stroking its way up and down Hermann’s side, fingers hot on Hermann’s skin even through his button-down and sweater–creeps up and cups Hermann’s cheek. He angles Hermann’s face, very, very gently, in his direction. Newton’s lips are parted, and his tongue pokes out between them.

“No,” Hermann says. “I haven’t. Ah.” Newton traces his thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. It’s very hard for Hermann to stay focused. “Newton. What are you doing?”

Newton grins at him. “Isn’t it obvious? Sit tight,” he says, and then he kisses Hermann. 

Afterwards, he looks at Hermann–who is rather too shocked to speak–expectantly. “How was that?” he says. “Good?”

Hermann nods.

“Good,” Newton says, and then he brushes his lips over Hermann’s cheek, the tip of his nose, his chin. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, and Hermann nods again and shuts his eyes. He feels Newton slide off his glasses and let them drop around his neck (librarian glasses, Newton always calls them). “Tell me if I should stop,” Newton adds, low in his ear.

Hermann doesn’t, not while Newton plants kiss after kiss up his neck, across his face, to his lips, not when he squeezes Hermann’s side or pushes his tongue into Hermann’s mouth and makes Hermann groan softly, not when he nuzzles against Hermann’s throat and his rough stubble makes Hermann shiver. When Newton reaches for the top button of Hermann’s collar, Hermann makes a small, startled noise in the back of his throat; Newton pulls away. “Not yet ready, I’m afraid,” Hermann confesses.

Newton smiles again and nods. “That’s cool,” he says. “Whatever you want, whenever you want.” He pulls Hermann’s hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles instead.

 

Newton kisses him daily after that. He kisses Hermann hello, he kisses Hermann goodnight, he kisses Hermann when Hermann does something pleasing, he kisses Hermann when Hermann makes him laugh or smile, he kisses Hermann on silly whims (“You just look cute today”) and for made up excuses (“I thought you might be lonely”). All brief, chaste, gentle, nothing more than that.

He does not kiss Hermann like the first time until the first night Hermann sleeps in his bed (Newton has dinosaur sheets and a plush comforter with a small coffee stain in the upper right-hand corner, and he lured Hermann in with promises of a contraband space heater), where he wraps Hermann in his arms and shoves cold fingers under his sweater and cracks jokes until they’re both laughing into each other’s mouths. Hermann cannot remember a time he was this happy.

When he voices this to Newton (how happy Newton makes him, how warm, how protected, somehow, how Hermann never knew how  _wonderful_  intimacy could be before him), he expects Newton to tease him, but Newton–lying on top of him, knees bracketing Hermann’s legs, glasses fogged up and askew–merely blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, voice oddly thick. “That’s. Thanks, dude.”

Hermann has not considered Newton’s insecurities in all this. It’s Hermann’s turn, now, to pull Newton tight to his chest. “Newton,” he murmurs into his hair, “I care very much for you.  _Very_ much.” He thinks he could very easily fall in love with Newton. He also thinks he might already be.

“Dork,” Newton giggles weakly, but he smiles wide.


	130. gentle loving bedmate newt (mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Writing prompt maybe? Or just a regular ask if you'd prefer: Hermann confides in Newt one night that none of his previous bedmates were ever even half as sweet and loving and gentle as Newt is. Newt is so confused. "But why would anyone take you to bed without being sweet and loving and gentle? You're so lovely and precious and you make the cutest faces when you come! And you get all adorably limp afterwards, so it's super easy to maneuver you into whatever cuddling position I want!"

Usually, after they bang, Hermann is so worn out that he needs a full half-hour to recover, just gets all limp and boneless and gives Newt one-word responses to the standard list of questions Newt runs through. Or little nods. (Was that good for Hermann? Anything hurting him? Does Hermann want some water, another blanket, no blankets at all?) It’s all very…cute seems like the wrong word to apply to Hermann–repression and bitchiness wrapped up into a bony, slouching package–but it’s all Newt can think of. Endearing, maybe. And extremely gratifying, too–that Newt’s  _so_ good at sex that he can reduce Hermann to something like this. 

Today, after they banged (Newt hooked Hermann’s legs over his shoulders and went to town on him until Hermann made that weird mouth-open eyes-rolled-back face that meant he was coming), after Newt cleaned them off with the little wet washcloth waiting on the bedside table, after Newt cycled through the usual questions (was it good? grunt yes; water? headshake no; blanket? cuddling? enthusiastic nods), Newt rolled them over so Hermann was draped over his body and contented himself with leaving small kisses over the patch of Hermann’s elegant neck presented so sweetly to him. Hermann’s a pretty light little thing, all things considered, and Newt has no problem at all taking his weight. (Sometimes, he takes Hermann like this, laying down with Hermann wrapped tightly in his arms above him, just rocking into him gently and slowly.) “Fucking love having sex with you,” Newt sighs happily, and licks over a hickey he left on Hermann’s skin about an hour earlier. He hopes Hermann doesn’t try to cover it up.

Hermann shakes with a small laugh. “Likewise,” he says. He rolls his shoulders back with a groan, joints popping audibly, and then somehow becomes even  _more_ boneless atop Newt. Just sags completely. “You know, Newton,” he continues, “you’re certainly the most… _enthusiastic_  partner I’ve ever been with.”

“Enthusiastic?” Newt says, and laughs. “That a good thing?”

“Mm. A very good thing.” Hermann kisses him slow and dirty, tongue swiping in deep, and then nips at his lower lip. “None of them have ever been as courteous, either. Nor as…sweet.”

“Sweet?” Newt says. Hermann’s called him sweet exactly once in his life, the first time he fucked Newt and breathed out  _my sweet, sweet man_ against his skin, and Newt pretended not to hear anything because he was pretty sure he wasn’t actually supposed to hear anything. Sweet doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Hermann would call Newt. Newt trails his fingers down Hermann’s back and down to the very (very, very) slight curve of his ass, and curls over it and squeezes gently. He’s not  _trying_ to seduce Hermann into another round, per say, but if Newt just happened to touch him enough that Hermann gets horny again and is open to the suggestion, Newt would not object. “What else am I?” he says, squeezing again and enjoying the way Hermann’s whole body shivers.

“Gentle,” Hermann says. “Caring.” Newt snorts, and Hermann amends, “Caring in bed.” He suddenly sounds very serious. “It’s nothing like I’ve ever… Er. My past partners were never largely concerned with me.”

Newt and Hermann don’t talk much about their very limited amount of exes–Newt’s dated exactly one person before Hermann (a dude with purple hair and an equally purple guitar who stood Newt up half the time), and he knows Hermann’s own experience is limited to exactly three dudes (the last of which, Hermann confessed, he only dated in a pitiful effort to get over Newt after their sorta-very disastrous first meeting)–but he knows Hermann is not particularly fond of any of them. Newt was never really jumping at the chance to find out all the details about the guys Hermann dated that weren’t Newt back when they were still pen pals, and then they had that whole awkward-tense-impersonal lab partner thing going on, and then when they started having sex Newt was really only interested in the here and now of all things relating to both Hermann and sex. But he did wonder, occasionally (and jealously), and he wonders now. Worries now, not wonders, because sex with Hermann Gottlieb is the best fucking thing on this earth, Hermann Gottlieb  _himself_ is the best fucking thing on this earth, and Newt teases, and he pesters, and he provokes, but he’s never once taken that for granted, but apparently other people have. “It’s not exactly a chore to have sex with you, dude,” Newt says.

Hermann cards his fingers through Newt’s hair and merely hums a little, so Newt continues.

“You’re like, the hottest guy ever,” he says. “And you just–I love the noises you make,” (Hermann grunts when he fucks Newt, gasps  _ha, ah, oh_  when Newt fucks him, squeaks and wheezes when Newt uses just his tongue and fingers, marks his orgasms with weird guttural shouts that leave Newt giggling half the time) “and the weird faces you make,” (pouts and scowls and scrunched-up things that would not, under any other circumstances, be remotely erotic) “how fucking bossy you are, how cute you get afterwards–like, shit, Hermann, anyone who’s not one-hundred-percent into that is fucking nuts, okay?”

Hermann looks touched, and then kisses Newt all dirty again, so Newt decides now’s the time to slip his other hand up to Hermann’s ass and squeeze it with both. “You make a fine argument,” Hermann breathes, and he rocks back into Newt’s grasp. “Ah. Newton.”

“Is this working?” Newt says, grinning and moving his fingers down to prod at a very strategic spot between Hermann’s legs, and Hermann moans and spreads his thighs wider.

“Yes. Oh–”

Newt flips them carefully, making sure Hermann is arranged comfortably on the pillows, and then wraps Hermann into his arms. “Round two?” he says, rocking against Hermann and already beginning to lift his leg.

“If you wouldn’t object,” Hermann says.


	131. tech guy hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Okay, but if Newt's the sexy mechanic, then Hermann's the sexy tech guy. Newt will come up to Hermann like "Dr. Gottlieb, my laptop is having some issues. Could you maybe take a look at it, please?" "Newton, I know full well this is a problem you can fix easily." "PLEASE, Dr. Gottlieb? I'd just feel SO much better if someone like ~*you*~ would look at it."
> 
> this one isnt even sexy HAHA

Hermann is not officially campus technology support, nor, technically, is it something he’d even supposed to be consulting in without the proper university-sanctioned credentials, but the technology support they  _used_ tohave was so bloody awful that half the time computers came back in worse shape than they were going in, so around six months ago Hermann simply…decided to take matters into his own hands. A coup d’état, so to speak. When he’s not lecturing on astrophysics, or lecturing on advanced mathematics, or holding office hours, Hermann’s consulting in technology services and training the undergraduates there via workstudy how to  _properly_ do their jobs. 

They’ve had a marked rise in consultations since Hermann took over, which Hermann supposes is to be expected as a side effect of competence.

They’ve had a marked rise in consultations with one man in particular.

Dr. Geiszler is the head of the biology department, lectures in both biochemistry and engineering, and–if rumors are to be believed–completed grad school in his teen years and has at least six PhDs to show for it. By all accounts, he’s a veritable genius. It’s why, for the life of him, Hermann cannot figure out why Dr. Geiszler has come to technology services more times than Hermann can count in the past three weeks.

The first time was understandable: Dr. Geiszler burst into the office shouting, frantically, about how his computer crashed and he lost nearly twenty-five student assignments, so Hermann–pitying him, one educator to another–sat him down and took care of it himself. After that, it was less understandable. Dr. Geiszler’s computer was making a weird noise and he didn’t know why. Dr. Geiszler somehow managed to uninstall his trackpad. Dr. Geiszler accidentally deleted all of his shortcut icons for applications. Dr. Geiszler was sure his wifi was broken, until Hermann pointed out he’d merely turned his laptop’s internet connection off. Dr. Geiszler forgot how to change his desktop background.

Today, when Hermann sees that familiar, scruffy, bespectacled head poking over the counter of the front desk, he does not even bother logging Dr. Geiszler into their appointment system, just sighs and motions him back.

“Hiya, Hermann,” Geiszler says, dropping into the swivel chair next to Hermann but  _refusing_ to sit in it properly, simply straddling it backwards. “How’s it going?” Hermann does not, truthfully, mind Dr. Geiszler’s complete lack of professionalism, nor the fact that he bypasses titles and simply calls Hermann by his first name, but Hermann feels as if he ought to put up a front and makes a face every time anyway.

“What have you done today?” Hermann says, and Geiszler laughs weakly before pulling his laptop out of a tote bag that’s more enamel pins than fabric.

“Would you believe it?” Geiszler says. “I managed to delete my email account.”

Geiszler did not, actually, delete his email account–he’d merely logged out of it–and once Hermann shows him this in five minutes Geiszler shakes his head in amazement (like Hermann cured cancer on the spot and not, in fact, merely entered “gmail” into the search bar). “Wow, Hermann,” he says. “You’re  _so good_  with computers. I wish I could be that good.”

“You have a doctorate in engineering,” Hermann says.

“And you’re still better than me at this shit,” Geiszler says, and then pats Hermann’s arm like he’s congratulating him. “Congratulations. That’s pretty impressive, dude.” He does not remove his hand. Geiszler has tattoos, Hermann notices. Geiszler also has  _very strong_ hands.

Hermann clears his throat. “Dr. Geiszler,” he begins, and Geiszler shakes his head and smiles.

“Just call me Newt,” he says, and squeezes Hermann’s arm lightly, companionably.

“Newton,” Hermann corrects (because he refuses to use that nickname), face heating up for unknown reasons, “I have another appointment, so if you would–”

Newton drops his hand. “Right,” he says. “Sorry.”

Hermann finishes up for the afternoon at one so as to be on time for the lecture he’s got to give at one-thirty, but he’s stopped by the sophomore Physics major who works the front desk on his way out the door. “Just so you know, Dr. Gottlieb,” she says, and Hermann swivels on his cane, “Dr. Geiszler’s almost exceeded his maximum allotted amount of appointments for the month.”

Hermann pulls his glasses up to peer over her shoulder at her computer screen, where she’s pulled up Newton’s data profile; sure enough, Newton has stopped by tech services ten times since January. Eleven times, if Hermann would’ve logged him in today. The maximum they allow per month is twelve, but Hermann can’t remember the last time they had someone make more than four. Newton is a special case. “Should I send him a warning email?” the sophomore says.

“No,” Hermann says. “Don’t bother with the limit for Dr. Geiszler.” He doesn’t imagine Newton’ll pay much attention to the warning, anyway, just plead with Hermann for an appointment until Hermann finally caves in. “You can simply automatically assign him with me.”

A new email pops up in the corner of the front desk’s PC; it’s from Dr. Geiszler. After Hermann nods at her, the girl opens it. “Dr. Geiszler’s requested another appointment with you tomorrow,” she says. “He says…his speakers aren’t working.”

Hermann narrows his eyes. “He  _requested_  me?”

“He usually does,” the girl says, and scrolls through the tech services email inbox until she finds a folder marked ‘Dr. Geiszler’ (made at Hermann’s behest). At least eight emails, all after that very first appointment with Hermann, all requesting an appointment with–at first–the full honorary title Dr. Gottlieb, and then devolving into  _Hermann_. “I made him an appointment with someone else one time and he cancelled it.”

“I see,” Hermann says, frowning and–to his surprise–mildly embarrassed. “Yes. Ah. Thank you.”

He hurries out.

 

When Newton shows up for his appointment the next morning–“I don’t know  _what_ I did, Hermann, but the sound just stopped working!”–and it turns out to be yet another easy fix (he had his computer on mute), Hermann decides he’s had enough. “Newton,” he says. “I know  _full well_  this was a problem you could’ve fixed easily. All of your problems have been problems you could’ve fixed easily.”

“Yeah,” Newton says quickly, “but, uh, I just feel better having someone like you look at–”

Hermann holds up his hand and cuts him off. “Why are you really here?”

He expects Newton will make some elaborate excuse, but to his surprise, Newton quickly drops his clueless act, shrugs, and grins. “You wanna get dinner?” he says.

“ _Dinner_?”

“With me,” Newton adds. “And on me. If that wasn’t clear.”

“That is,” Hermann splutters, because his first instinct was to give an enthusiastic  _yes_ (Newton is messy and scruffy and infuriatingly attractive) but he thinks, reasonably, he should play at least somewhat hard to get, “I don’t. This whole time–?”

“Yep,” Newton says.

“That’s a horrendous abuse of campus resources,” Hermann says, though the past month suddenly makes a great deal more sense, and then, to Newton’s obvious glee, “Oh, yes. Alright. Dinner.”

 

Newton continues making appointments, but he and Hermann usually spend them in far more conductive ways after that: Hermann’s office is private, after all.


	132. more 1920s burlesque AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starsandastronauts asked:  
> Hey if you ever have any spare time, I'd love more of the 1920's AU! (Also, the idea of Newt dolling Hermann up in flapper dresses Gives Me Life and Consumes My Every Waking Thought)

Hermann’s become something of a regular at Newton’s speakeasy, at this point, he comes to see Newton so often; they don’t even bother asking him for the password at the front anymore. Tonight he’s brought a bouquet of flowers, because he knows Newton’ll love it and he’ll smile and fling his arms around Hermann’s neck and kiss him senseless, and though Hermann does get a few curious stares as he navigates his way to Newton’s dressing room—he’s fully dressed, overcoat and hat and slacks and suspenders and cane and all—the handful of other performers relax once they recognize him. Well—some relax. Others give him awed looks. (Geiszler’s sweetheart, Hermann hears whispered. Newt’s fella. He can’t help but puff with pride a little. Yes, he is Newton’s sweetheart, that’s exactly who he is.)

Newton answers his door on the second knock and flings his arms round Hermann with a kiss exactly as Hermann hoped, then tugs Hermann in by his tie and kicks the door back shut. “Hi,” Newton says, crowding Hermann up against it, already undoing Hermann’s collar. He’s in his regular thick eyeglasses and dressing robe, flung haphazardly over his full costume once more, and he’s got one false eyelash removed. “I missed you.”

They’d seen each other at the university just that morning, but they’ve lately begun keeping their distance from each other. Their infamous mutual animosity has fizzled out almost entirely (replaced with something far, far better) and it’s extraordinarily difficult to keep up the ruse for their colleagues, to say nothing of the sheer lightning bolts of  _want_  that shoot through Hermann whenever Newton so much as looks in his direction these days. (And, more dangerous than want, plain and simple  _affection_  for the man.)

Newton nips at his newly-revealed throat, and Hermann’s moans softly and tilts his head back. It’s good, it’s wonderful, but— “Careful, love,” Hermann says, reaching up and touching Newton’s shoulder, “careful.” Newton pulls away with a little sigh. It won’t do to have bruises where anyone can see them. (His collar, smeared red with Newton’s lipstick, is a hopeless case at this point, but Hermann lives alone and away from curious, prying eyes.)

“Sorry,” Newton says, and grins sheepishly. He takes a step back and smooths his hand down Hermann’s shirt, then exclaims with delight when he catches sight of the—now mildly squished—flowers. “Hermann, you’re adorable.”

Hermann flushes with pleasure. “The gentlemen outside called me your sweetheart,” he says, as Newton pokes over the flowers. He recalls how strangely everyone treated him. “What have you been telling them, Newton?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Newton says, vague and airy, and struts back over to his dressing table. The flowers Hermann brought him last time are still there in the little vase, wilted and shriveling, and Newton simply shoves the new bouquet alongside it. (Newton will save his favorites, Hermann knows, tuck them into his biology texts to be dried and pressed. He likes daisies the best.)

Newton starts pulling off the other eyelash.

“Newton,” Hermann says.

Newton grins at Hermann’s reflection above his shoulder in the mirror. “I  _may_ have started some rumors that I have a really sweet fella who dotes on me,” he says. “And, uh, who’ll use his cane to knock the lights out of anyone who gets too handsy with me.” He starts pulling out the hairpins that hold up his elaborate starry headpiece. Hermann comes up behind him and aids him, lip twitching up in amusement. He, truthfully, doesn’t mind Newton’s exaggerations, if they can even be called that; he certainly dotes on Newton (the flowers, jewelry, and even perfumes he’s bought Newton spread out over his dressing table can attest to that), and he does not doubt that he would knock the lights out of anyone in the name of Newton’s honor.

“Is that something that happens a lot?” Hermann says, settling his hand on the back of Newton’s neck as Newton pulls off the headpiece entirely. “People getting ‘handsy’ with you, I mean.”

Newton grins wider. “ _You_  sure do.” The details of their first rendezvous—Hermann getting an eyeful and a handful during the show, Newton leading him to his dressing room and the chaise, kissing him breathless—are not anything Hermann’s likely to forget anytime soon. Or ever. It’s not a tradition he wants to stop any time soon, either, not as long as Newton continues to find the time each show Hermann attends to drape himself across his lap and drag Hermann’s hands over scandalous patches of skin.

“And I intend to some more,” Hermann declares. He trails his fingers over Newton’s left shoulder, right over the single strap of Newton’s glimmering brasserie, and Newton hurriedly tugs out his earrings and reaches for a dampened cloth to take off his makeup. Hermann slowly works the strap down Newton’s shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself, darling, I don’t mind it.” Shirt stains aside, he likes how debauched he looks when Newton’s finished marking him with lipstick and the like.

“It feels weird after a bit on my end, though,” Newton says. He must see the curiosity that flickers across Hermann’s face at the admission, because he lights up a second later. “Hey! You wanna try it?”

“Er,” Hermann says.

Newton’s hopping to his feet and dragging Hermann down into his vanity chair in his place before Hermann can even think of a response, then hooking Hermann’s cane on the back of the chair and straddling his waist. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze between Hermann and the table, but Newton manages. “You have such pretty eyelashes and lips,” Newton says, brushing his fingertips over Hermann’s cheek. “Just let me—” He fumbles around behind himself, then produces a tin of mascara, an even smaller tin of glitter, some rouge, a stick of black eyeliner, and his tube of red lipstick. He shoves everything but the eyeliner into Hermann’s hand. “Hold these,” he orders. “Close your eyes, too, and stay still.”

The eyeliner tickles as Newton glides it over the curves of his eyelids, and Hermann twitches uncomfortably a few times until he gets used to the odd feeling. “Open, now,” Newton commands, and he helps Hermann blink through his little mascara brush. Newton applies the rouge, next, across the arches of Hermann’s cheekbones, his tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration the whole while, and then he’s uncapping his tube of lipstick. “Open your mouth,” he says, and then he’s swiping the red over Hermann’s lower lip, his upper lip. “And—” He rubs some glitter just underneath Hermann’s eyebrows. When he’s satisfied, he tosses everything back to the table, and sits back and admires his handiwork. His wide grin returns, but it’s much softer this time. “Well, it’s not the best, but… Oh, wait, hold on, don’t look yet.”

Once Hermann’s shut his eyes again, feeling a bit like a dress-up doll, Newton slides off his lap, and Hermann hears the click of his heels (which he’s yet to kick off) as he hurries to his dressing rack. He’s back in an instant, shoving Hermann’s overcoat down round his waist and tossing something over his shoulders. “There!” he says.

Hermann stares at his reflection, feeling a bit foolish. The job Newton’s done on him is nowhere near as graceful as the one Newton’s done on himself for the show: the eyeliner’s a bit uneven, the lipstick makes the thinness of his lips more obvious, and the glittery feather boa round his neck looks ridiculous with his tie and suspenders. The longer Hermann considers himself, though, the longer he likes it all. His eyelashes do look pretty. His lips are thin, but they’re wide, and he could see why Newton likes them. But it does feel quite strange. Newton was not exaggerating.

Newton leans down to kiss at the back of his neck. “So handsome,” he coos, sliding his hands up and down Hermann’s biceps. “My big, handsome sweetheart.”

“Newton,” Hermann says, ducking his head and blushing horrendously.

Newton kisses his neck again and snaps one of his suspenders; Hermann shudders at the feeling.  ****“C’mon,” Newton mutters in his ear, tugging at the same suspender.

Newton leads him to the chaise in the corner with more kisses, more gentle coaxing compliments, and then straddles his lap and loops his arms around Hermann’s neck. “Next time,” he says, “I’m gonna dress you up all the way, pal. I bet we could fit you into some of my nylons. Definitely one of my dresses.” He pats Hermann’s thigh. “You have such pretty legs. I bet you’d look  _great_.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Hermann says, surprising himself, and Newton laughs in delight.

“Keen,” he says.


	133. bedside love confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Surgery anon here! I feel a bit like Herms cuz I’ve had a knee replacement and I’m only 23 (Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome is fun) but I’d love to read a fic after them drifting where one of them has to spend more time in medical leading to the other getting more and more frustrated and eventually confessing their love and begging them to wake up when they don’t realise he’s already awake. I feel like Newt would be the one begging but it’s up to you!

Hermann’s not surprised, really, that they’re keeping Newton under observation in medical for a week, even after they let Hermann go with nothing but a pat on the back and some new pain medication. Newton drifted twice with the kaiju brain, after all. Newton’s nose has been bleeding on and off again since the first time. Newton had a seizure. (Hermann found Newton, prone and bloody and shaking on the lab floor, and Newton was stranded in the city in the middle of a kaiju attack for  _hours_ , dead for all Hermann knew, crushed by the monsters he loved so much, Newton was going to drift alone, again.) 

He’s not surprised, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.

Newton takes it all in stride, which Hermann  _is_ surprised about. Newton is so lively, so full of energy; he despises being confined to one space for too long. “It’s not that bad,” he tells Hermann on the first night, one full day of not leaving bed save for the toilets and brain scans. Hermann’s brought him his laptop and a contraband pack of cookies–by request–and a spare blanket and ragged old MIT sweatshirt–not by request. “I’ve been asleep for most of it, to be honest with you. What’s this?” He picks up the sweatshirt.

“I thought you might want it,” Hermann says, and Newton looks at him in mild shock. He does not tell Newton that he dug around in Newton’s closet to find the softest article of clothing he could, nor, when Newton examines the blanket curiously as well, that the blanket is from Hermann’s bed. (Newton needs it more than he does.)

“I do,” Newton says, and he pulls the sweatshirt on over his head and smiles at Hermann. “Thanks, Hermann.”

Hermann nods stiffly, then, as an afterthought, arranges the blanket over Newton’s lap as well. The sheets and bedspreads in medical are extraordinarily uncomfortable. “Yes. Well. I’ve been in here for extended periods of time before as well. They keep it frigid.” He nods towards the chair at Newton’s bedside, where Newton’s personal effects (wallet, cracked glasses, phone), his dirty boots, and his even dirtier leather jacket are arranged neatly. “May I?”

Newton’s still smiling. “Be my guest.”

Hermann moves Newton’s belongings to the floor and lowers himself into the chair gingerly, then hooks his cane onto Newton’s bedside table. The back is uncomfortable and rigid, but he doesn’t let on, because he knows Newton would make a fuss and demand that Hermann be brought a better chair otherwise. “One week?” Hermann says.

“One week,” Newton confirms. He stashes the cookies beneath his pillow and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up, the sleeves down over his hands, and burrows into it with a deep, comfortable sigh. “God, dude, you’re the best.”

“One week,” Hermann says again, mostly to himself. Newton’s begun to doze off.

He can survive without Newton for a week–he  _has_ survived without Newton for a week, many weeks, he went a whole month at a different Shatterdome one time–but Hermann simply wishes it could’ve been…a  _different_ week. Not the week following their world-saving triumph, their drift, baring his soul to Newton and seeing some very,  _very_ interesting things in Newton’s head in return. Newton’s brain is complex, wonderful, beautiful. Newton is complex and wonderful and beautiful, and Hermann just wants…to talk, in private. About those certain interesting Things.

“Newton,” Hermann begins, but Newton’s fallen asleep entirely. Hermann does not begrudge him the sleep, not even on top of all the sleep Newton’s evidently gotten in the last twenty-four hours, so he parts with a single companionable pat to Newton’s knee.

Newton is asleep the next day when he goes to check in on him again, late in the day, because Hermann’s been saddled with classified paperwork and wrap-up labwork for  _two_ until Newton’s back in commission. (Where they got the kaiju brain, what Hermann saw, how Newton’s hobbled-together drift machine worked, all mind-bogglingly-pedantic details that makes Hermann want to tear his hair out). Newton’s also asleep the day after that. “It’s to be expected, Dr. Gottlieb,” one of the nurses tells him apologetically the third time it happens. “You and Dr. Geiszler have been through a  _lot_.”

“It’s nothing…serious?” Hermann eyes up Newton nervously over the nurse’s shoulder. Medical’s lights have dimmed for the evening, but he can still make Newton out.

“None of our scans have showed us anything, and the nosebleeds have stopped,” the nurse says. He touches Hermann’s arm reassuringly. “He needs rest. You need rest.”

Hermann has not slept soundly since Newton was admitted. “I’d like to stay by his side,” Hermann says. “If that’s–allowed.”

It’s not allowed, but Hermann and Newton are  _rock stars_ , now, and Hermann, perhaps, uses this to his advantage, smiles and bats his eyelashes and brushes his fingers against the nurse’s in such a way that leaves the man flustered and pink-faced and agreeing to let Hermann stay the night at Newton’s bedside, but  _only_ for tonight. (Newton would say Hermann was flirting, get a great kick out of it.) Hermann worries he may have overdone it, especially when the nurse comes back with not one, but  _two_ blankets for Hermann, and two pillows and a new chair, too. “Just don’t let anyone catch you,” he warns Hermann, and then, with a wink, “see you around, Doctor.” He pulls the privacy curtain around Newton’s bed shut.

“Oh, dear,” Hermann says under his breath.

Newton is always strangely innocent and sweet-looking in his sleep. Hermann suspects it has something to do with the lack of glasses, the way his mouth hangs open, the rosiness of his cheeks. He’s still got his fists balled up in his sleeves, but his hood has fallen back. Hermann smooths back his hair gently. “I wish you’d wake up,” he murmurs.

Newton sniffles in his sleep.

“I’ve been worried sick about you,” Hermann continues. “I can’t sleep, or eat, or get any work done, or–”

Newton’s brain was complex, and wonderful, and beautiful, and every time Hermann closes his eyes he sees blue-tinged Newton at seven (freckled and toothy and digging up worms in the garden), fifteen (lecturing to a hall of students nearly a decade older than himself), twenty-three (penning a letter to Hermann, his  _first_ letter to Hermann, he hopes Hermann likes him), thirty-five (you’d do that for me?), but more importantly he sees the regard Newton holds for him, the confusing blend of frustration and lust and annoyance and fascination and  _love_ that Hermann echoes back in kind. 

He just wants to talk, is all.

“You should know,” he tells Newton, “or perhaps you  _do_ know, but I care for you a great deal. Er. A  _very_ great deal. You’re–well.” He fidgets. He was hoping this would come out eloquently. “Please wake up.”

Newton opens his eyes. Hermann nearly falls off his chair. “Hey,” Newton says, and feigns a large yawn. “What were you saying?”

“You bloody bastard,” Hermann hisses. “How long have you been awake?!”

“When you started stroking my hair,” Newton says, and his face splits into a broad grin. “How long have  _you_  been  _here_ weeping over my prone, lifeless body?”

“I have never wept once in my life,” Hermann declares, blushing brilliantly. “That’s–you– _oh_ ,” and he pushes himself to his feet in a huff. The grin slides off Newton’s face.

“Wait,” Newton says, “wait, I was just screwing with you.”

Hermann narrows his eyes.

Newton pouts.

Hermann lowers himself back to his seat.

“I should’ve said something earlier,” Newton says. “But I kinda–well.” It’s his turn to blush. “I wanted to see where you were going with it.”

“Hmph,” Hermann says.

“I’m in love with you too, okay?” Newton says, and he holds his hand out to Hermann like he had in the Bone Slums. (For me?) “Fucking head over heels. Madly. For, like, a decade. It’s embarrassing.”

“‘Too’ is presumptuous,” Hermann says, but he smiles and takes Newton’s hand and laces their fingers together. “I love you,” he says, because it feels good to confess it aloud, and Newton’s crinkling eyes and excited laugh make it more than worth it.

 

Newton is cleared by the end of the week, right on time, and he greets Hermann with an enthusiastic kiss when Hermann meets him outside medical. “Ask me how it feels to be a free man,” he says, flinging his arms around Hermann’s shoulders and tugging him forward ‘til they’re chest-to-chest.

“You need a shower,” Hermann says, wrinkling his nose (Newton smells like stale sweat and hospital beds) but sliding his free hand up Newton’s back anyway.

“You offering one, hot stuff?” Newton says, and he laughs at the exasperated noise Hermann makes before curling up on the tips of his unlaced boots and kissing him soundly.


	134. newt's birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> We’ve entered Newt’s birthday month, so I’m hoping birthday sex will be A Thing at some point. 👀👀👀
> 
> not exactly sexy but....there are REFERENCES to sexy stuff?

Newton, Hermann’s found over the years, is remarkably easy to please when it comes to holidays. He’s happy with  _anything_ , so long as it involves the two of them together. Of course, Newton puts an absurd amount of effort into everything for Hermann, so Hermann usually ends up putting an equally absurd amount of effort into everything for Newton. Wedding anniversaries must have Newton falling into his arms and proposing all over again by the end of the night. Valentine’s Day must have him falling into their bed. Even  _Halloween_ must have Newton giddy and excited and happy and reaffirming just how much Hermann means to him.

Hermann’s planned out every minuscule detail of today—Newton’s birthday—for that very reason. It must be perfect. Even better than last year.

He sets his alarm for exactly thirty minutes before Newton usually wakes (ten, instead of ten-thirty) and gets started on making him breakfast and coffee as he runs through today’s agenda in his head. Breakfast in bed, then Newton will likely want to have sex (which Hermann is more than happy with), then they’ll catch a cab to the aquarium, then come back to change into something nice (and Newton will likely want to have more sex, since he always gets rather enthusiastic when Hermann wears his good suit), then they’ve got reservations at the sushi restaurant Newton likes, then come back for cake (which Hermann still has to put frosting on). A perfect day for his husband.

It’s not until Hermann’s cooked half a dozen pancakes that he looks out the kitchen window and realizes he may have to make slight adjustments to their plans for the day.

 

“Pancakes!” Newton says happily when Hermann wakes him with a kiss a tray stacked with breakfast and a bouquet of flowers. He picks a pristine heart-shaped one from the plate and beams. “This is so cute, Hermann. How long did it take you to learn how to do that?”

“Not long,” Hermann says, lying through his teeth. He practiced for two weeks. He kisses the top of Newton’s head again. “Happy birthday, my love.”

Newton sets his breakfast tray off to the side, then winds one of Hermann’s apron strings around his fingers and tugs him forward. “You’re looking cute too,” he says, eyes roving up and down Hermann’s body, from his socked feet, to his rocketship-dotted apron, to his silky pajama shirt. “Really cute. Loving—” He tugs at the apron string again. “This.”

“At least eat something first,” Hermann chastises, and Newton leers at him and sneaks his hand under the apron. He rubs at the front of Hermann’s pajama bottoms gently.

“Alright,” Newton says.

 

“I should be doing this to, ah,” Hermann gasps, threading his fingers in Newton’s hair and watching the fabric of his apron shift and move along with Newton, “to you. Oh—darling—”

“Mm,” Newton hums. “No you shouldn’t. Spread those hot supermodel legs for me, baby.”

When Newton’s finished, and successfully reduced Hermann to a boneless, panting heap on the mattress, he barely remembers to wipe his mouth off before shoveling three pancakes into his mouth and moaning in a way that’s nearly erotic. Hermann thinks he might be a little disgusted if he could think straight. “It’s snowing,” he remembers to say.

“Is it?” Newton says. Several crumbs fall from his mouth to their sheets. “A lot?”

Hermann rolls onto his side and pulls back the curtain of the window just next to their bed. “A lot,” he confirms. There are a good two inches more than there were earlier. There’s a light clatter of dishes—Newton setting his tray on the bedside table, Hermann assumes—and then Newton presses up behind him and wraps a warm arm around his waist.

“We’ll stay in then,” Newton murmurs, mouthing kisses up the back of his neck. Hermann’s eyes flutter shut, but he manages a small, disappointed sigh. The kisses stop. “Not good?”

“I made plans,” Hermann says. “Tickets. And—er—reservations.”

“Then we’ll go out,” Newton declares. He wiggles his hand under Hermann’s shirt, and Hermann shivers. “After…”

 

They don’t go out. They  _intend_  to go out, and Newton puts on a dress with fish and seaweed and jellyfish on it for the occasion, and Hermann wears a sweater that clings to his arms because he knows Newton likes it, but the moment they open their front door they have…second thoughts. “Sure is cold,” Newton says, catching a snowflake on his gloved palm. He watches it melt. “Cold, and snowy, and—”

“Treacherous,” Hermann says, looking at the poorly-plowed streets, the ice and slush covering their stoop and sidewalk beyond. He’s never good with navigating his cane through slush.

“One of us could slip,” Newton says.

Neither of them make a move to step down.

“We have reservations,” Hermann reminds him. “And tickets.”

Newton squeezes his hand and smiles. “We could make out on the couch all day?”

 

They crank up the heat—“It’s my birthday,” Newton says, “I earned it!”—and pick something from Newton’s decades-old record collection to blare on the turntable, and Newton strips to just his dress and plops himself down happily into Hermann’s lap. “This is better,” he says, kissing and nuzzling at Hermann’s throat. “Anyway, we can reuse the tickets, right?”

“They’re good until autumn,” Hermann says, smiling as he tilts his head back. They can always order takeaway from the restaurant instead and let someone else have their table, too. Newton’s hands dip lower. “Ah,” Hermann says, going pink, “don’t you want to open your presents first, love?”

His gifts are nothing too extravagant: guitar strings, a strange-looking plant that Newton (evidently familiar with its species) talks his ear off about for ten minutes, a new leather jacket, some old comic books from a nearby antique shop, a scarf Hermann hand-knitted himself to replace the one Newton lost on the metro in October. Newton is thoroughly delighted by everything anyway, and pounces on Hermann and kisses him amidst the wrapping paper scraps in thanks. They frost the cake together after that, Newton throwing handfuls of rainbow sprinkles at it like an over-enthusiastic toddler, and skip dinner to curl up on the couch once more and eat it directly off the serving platter.

Newton forgoes his fork to eat with his hands after only a few minutes. “This is the best birthday ever,” he declares, licking pink frosting off his fingertips.

“You said that last year,” Hermann says.

Newton scoops up another piece of cake. “So?”

Hermann rubs dried frosting off the tip of Newton’s nose, and Newton sticks his tongue out at him. It  _is_ a good birthday.


	135. hermann finding The Tape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I love your writing so much 💕 💗 ❤️ and you write so much I don’t know how you do it. You write newt and hermans characters perfectly. Could you write about Herman finding newt trying to test his drift theory, or perhaps finding the tape newt left after everything is over and they’re together. Love 😋

Packing up the lab takes a lot less time than either Newt or Hermann expect; they’d spent five years of their lives in that lab, after all, five years of deep research (broken vials and useless equations scrawled on graph paper and slowly decaying specimens), five years of cohabitation (mugs and dirty sweatshirts and the odd decades-old family photograph), five years of accumulating random junk (posters and dusty books and weird little trinkets Newt found in the city and gifted to Hermann), and that’s to say nothing of the contents of their bunks just off of the lab. Newt thought it would take them weeks, months, even, but the whole process only takes a few days. He supposes it helps that a lot of it is PPDC property and, thus, highly confidential and nothing they can take with them, and the stuff that  _isn’t_  highly confidential is useless at this point anyway.

What isn’t repossessed in the dead of night by Higher-Ups (Newt never even got to bid his samples farewell) mostly goes in the trash–Newt’s stash of disposable gloves, his work apron, pencils he’d stolen from Hermann and chewed beyond recognition, orange peels and dried teabags that littered Hermann’s desk, tiny nubs of chalk that were physically impossible to write with but Hermann refused to let go of until now. What isn’t repossessed or thrown out goes in cardboard boxes marked with _ **Geiszler + Gottlieb**  _in thick black Sharpie (because Hermann not-too-subtly indicated he wouldn’t  _mind_  continuing this trend of co-habitation with Newt even beyond their working relationship, and by “wouldn’t mind” Newt means, of course, that he caught Hermann looking up vacant apartments within walking distance from universities in every major city they had even the smallest emotional connection to, and not even specifying more than one bedroom).

All that’s left to do is finish going through their desks, which is proving to be the most demanding task of all. They have a  _lot_ of crap.

“You should save that,” Newt remarks, as Hermann attempts to throw one of his old work journals into the industrial-sized trash bin they’ve moved near the lab’s entrance. Newt’s on his hands and knees doing his very busy to peel up the hazmat tape that divides the lab.

“It’s just old, useless coding,” Hermann says, waving the book. “And I really do mean useless. Random scribbling. Not even a rough draft of a draft.”

If Hermann’s willingly parting with some of his precious math, it really  _must_ be useless. Still: Newt sits back on his heels and raises his eyebrows. “Could be worth a  _lot_ of money, dude,” he says. “You could sell it to the Smithsonian.”

Hermann snorts. “It’s  _garbage_ , Newton.”

Newt holds his hands up and mimes the shape of an imaginary plaque that would, hypothetically, adorn the museum exhibit for him and Hermann that will  _definitely_ exist one day. “‘Authentic jaeger coding by Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, PhD, rockstar, nerd savior of the world.’” Hermann laughs again, and Newt shrugs with a grin.

“Mm,” Hermann says, and tosses the notebook in the bin. “I’m sure. What about these?” He holds up more dried orange peels. (Where the hell was Hermann keeping all those? Why didn’t he just  _throw them out_  right away?) “Are these also worthy of a museum?”

“‘Authentic sustenance for Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, PhD, rockstar–’”

The orange peels go in too.

“Fine,” Newt tsks, scraping up another bit of tape, “but when I make a profit off my old tissues don’t expect me to spend  _any_ of it on our rent.”

“Our rent,” Hermann echoes, and Newt goes hot in the face and scrapes even harder. He spares a glance up once the clacking of Hermann’s cane fades to the opposite side of the lab: Hermann is smiling. Something flutters in Newt’s chest.

He can do this, Newt tells himself, heart pounding, scraping at the hazmat tape. He and Hermann can do this  _together,_ like they do everything. They can live together. They can navigate a relationship together. A  _relationship_ relationship, something clear and defined and real and more than just the confused jumble of emotions they’ve existed in a state of for years and years. They have time. They have all the time they could ever want, and they have each other. Another few inches of filthy, faded tape come up, and Newt turns it over thoughtfully in his hands. How poetic, really, that it’s one of the last things to go before he and Hermann–

“Is this yours?” Hermann calls over.

He’s holding up a very familiar tape recorder, and the bubbling warmth and hope in Newt’s chest deflates quickly. It must’ve gotten mixed up with Hermann’s things after Newt drifted with the kaiju brain. “Uh,” Newt says, scrambling to his feet and stumbling over to Hermann, because Hermann  _cannot_ listen to that tape, “that’s mine, I just–take notes on it, let me–” He swipes for it, but Hermann–giving him a rather bewildered look–tucks it to his chest and presses play.

“ _Kaiju-Human Drift Experiment Take One_ ,” the Newt of four days ago says, and Newt shrinks back.

Hermann does not look away from the tape recorder the entire time, not when Newt explains what he’s going to do, not at  _Hermann, if you’re listening to this_ , not even when Newt’s monologuing devolves into half-shouts and gasps and a loud thud that means he’s fallen against Hermann’s desk and to the ground. The tape runs out just as Hermann enters and cries out his name, cuts off with an audible click in the middle of a long stream of  _no, no, no_ s that twist the knife of guilt deeper and deeper into Newt’s stomach. (He knew Hermann was the one who found him, the one who yanked Newt back to reality and cradled him in his arms and brought him water and tucked his glasses carefully into his pocket, but he didn’t think–well–he didn’t realize how it must’ve  _been_ for Hermann to find him.)

When Hermann does look up, his smile has vanished entirely. “I see,” he says, icily. He thrusts the tape recorder back at Newt.

“Okay,” Newt says, “okay, listen, I know you’re probably thinking what an asshole I am right now–”

“Oh?” Hermann says, in mock-surprise.

“–but in my defense,” Newt continues, weakly, “I didn’t reallythink I was gonna die?” It’s the wrong thing to say. Hermann throws the tape recorder aside to the lab floor and pushes himself to his feet. “Hermann,” Newt says, “Hermann–” Newt grabs his arm, and Hermann shakes him off.

“You very nearly  _did_ die,” Hermann snaps, “and the very last thing you ever said would’ve–”

Newt grabs for him again. “I didn’t really mean–”

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann says, furious and commanding, and Newt flinches but doesn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” Newt says quickly. Hermann scoffs, but Newt presses on. “I’m  _sorry_ , seriously, Hermann, I mean it. I was pissed at you for treating me like an idiot, and I thought–I don’t know. I wanted to piss you off too. I wanted to prove you wrong. It was…petty.”

“It was,” Hermann agrees. He doesn’t look like he’s going to storm out of the lab anymore, which is good, even if he’s still scowling. “It was petty, and it was  _cruel_ , Newton.”

It’s Newt’s turn to scowl. “And shooting down all my theories for six months like I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing and making me feel useless isn’t?”

Hermann does wrench his arm away this time. “I was worried your complete lack of self-preservation would get you  _killed_ , you imbecile, that’s the only reason I shot down your theories!” Newt snaps his mouth shut, but Hermann keeps shouting. “I wasn’t going to stand by and watch you–!” His voice breaks.

Newt’s kissed Hermann before (clumsy and drunk at Shatterdome parties, hard and furious during their not-infrequent no-strings-attached fucks on the floor of the lab or against Hermann’s chalkboard, sweet and gentle the night they closed the Breach and Hermann swept him into his arms and laughed and smiled), kissing Hermann is nothing new, not even when Hermann’s pissed at him, but they don’t  _hug_ , they don’t touch each other much, so Newt surprises them both when he flings himself at Hermann–who stiffens quickly–and wraps him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” Newt says, eyes prickling hot (Hermann saved him  _twice_ , Hermann found him seizing and bleeding and cradled him in his arms, Hermann drifted with him and for him, Hermann loves him and Newt was careless and cruel), “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

He hears Hermann sigh, feels him sag as the fight leaves him, then touch Newt’s back tentatively with his free hand. “Newton,” he murmurs. “Oh, darling–” Newt sniffles pathetically; Hermann slides his hand up to stroke gently at Newt’s hair instead. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he confesses softly, and Newt clings to him tighter.

They throw the tape recorder out together.


	136. inexperienced(/awkward) first time (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Nsfw Newmann prompt: During their first time together, they both assume that the other has the experience and know what to do. They don't. Neither of them knows a damn thing about sex except what they've read in theory.

For someone who’s never so much as kissed before, Hermann thinks he’s doing a fairly good job of pretending to know what he’s doing. It’s all in the mimicry: when Newton moves his lips, Hermann moves his, when Newton touches his face or his back or his ass, Hermann touches Newton’s, when Newton shoves his tongue into Hermann’s mouth, Hermann pushes back with his own. When Newton corners him against the wall and starts humping Hermann’s thigh and grunting while Hermann clings to his cane for fear of falling, Hermann’s not entirely sure what he should do, so he lets him. It feels good, at least, and Newton seems to feel good especially.

“This is awesome,” Newton gasps. “This is so awesome. I’m gonna have sex with Hermann Gottlieb. We’re gonna have sex.”

“We are,” Hermann agrees. Newton grabs Hermann’s free hand and presses it, gracelessly, to the front of his jeans. Newton is very hard, and the fabric is hot and somewhat damp. Hermann masturbates occasionally, but never through clothing–Hermann’s very quick and methodical about masturbation, like he is everything, reserves it for once a week in a hot shower with Newton Geiszler playing the starring role in his fantasies–so he isn’t sure what to do here, either. He squeezes tentatively.

“That’s good,” Newton says. “That’s good. Fuck. Do that again.” Hermann squeezes again; Newton’s mouth drops open and his eyelids flutter open, shut, open, shut. “ _Wow_ , Hermann. You’re good at this.”

Hermann flushes pleasantly at the praise. He pets at Newton’s jeans for some time, enjoying the way Newton feels (body soft, hot, heavy against him), the way he moves (thrusting his hips forward, grinding against Hermann’s palm, tossing his head back), the sounds he makes (whines, gasps, little squeaks), and then Newton, without warning, pulls away and drops to his knees. “Newton?”

Newton is flushed and breathing heavily. His glasses have slid down his nose. “I’m gonna suck you off,” he declares.

“Oh,” Hermann says, but it comes out like a squeak worthy of Newton.

Newton fumbles with the fastening of Hermann’s slacks, then pulls them down, then his undershorts, and Hermann’s completely exposed to the chilly air of the Shatterdome. “Wow,” Newton says, marveling at his prick. Hermann flushes more deeply, in embarrassment, this time, and looks at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to look away–he’d rather watch Newton through all of it–but he doesn’t trust his ability to hold himself back from coming for longer than three minutes.

Newton’s hand curls around him, sturdy and warm. “Here we go,” he says. “I’m doing this.” He kisses the head.

“ _Oh_ ,” Hermann says again, sagging against the wall and his cane. He reaches up and slides his fingers through Newton’s product-slick hair. “Oh, Newton.”

Newton does nothing but lay a series of kisses across him, up and down the length of him and overtop his slit, and it does feel nice, of course, Newton touching him in any way is nice, but Hermann–well, he was under the impression that blowjobs involved slightly more than that.

Then Newton starts using his tongue. Nothing elaborate, just little swipes, long drags down where he’d previously been kissing sweetly. “How’s that?” Newton pants. “That feel good?”

Hermann pets at Newton’s hair shakily and nods.

Newton laps precome up from his slit and pumps him twice, and despite how wonderful his tongue feels Hermann can’t help but wince a little at painful drag. He wishes Newton put lotion or lubricant or  _something_  on his hand to ease the harsh friction. Spit, even. Newton seems to realize he doesn’t like it and falls back to careful, gentle touches with his fingertips, and Hermann chances a look down. He regrets it nearly immediately. Newton’s as flushed as he is, his lips pink, tongue and fingers exploring his prick, and he grins at Hermann when he realizes he finally has a visual audience.

“How about  _this_?” Newton says, and he licks his lips and unceremoniously ducks and takes Hermann down to the root.

Two things happen very fast: Newton chokes violently around Hermann’s prick, and Hermann comes.

Unfortunately, their timing is just slightly off. Newton chokes violently around Hermann’s prick and Hermann comes, but he does not come before Newton’s had the time to pull off of Hermann as quickly as he’d taken him in, so the entirety of his release ends up on a wheezing, coughing Newton’s face in erratic spurts. Hermann thinks the sight would be erotic if he wasn’t so mortified.

“Newton,” he stammers, as Newton (temporarily mildly blinded, as Hermann got it all over his glasses, too) flails and coughs, “oh, dear, I’m sorry, let me–”

He attempts to clean Newton’s glasses with the sleeve of his sweater through the haze of his afterglow. It doesn’t really work, but, badly smudged though they still are, he imagines Newton can at least see a little more through them. “Okay,” Newton finally says, once he can speak, “okay, so I can’t deepthroat, that’s fine, nobody’s perfect.”

“You were,” Hermann begins, “er, very good.” Newton must be trying very hard not to laugh at him. Surely the other men–because there must have been other men, Newton is attractive and intelligent,  _Hermann_ fell for him in a heartbeat–Newton’s done this too did not last as poorly as Hermann did. “Very well done, Newton.”

“Uh-huh,” Newton says. He scrubs at his glasses with his shirtsleeves. “Hey, wanna head back to my room?”

“Your room?” Hermann echoes.

“I have condoms,” Newton says. “And lube.”

“But I just–” Hermann flushes deeper at the implications. Hermann has come, but Newton has not; Newton is still very hard and offering up the types of precautions that means he wants to do things  _to_ Hermann. “Oh.”

“We don’t have to!” Newton says. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“No,” Hermann says, doing his trousers up quickly with one hand. “I  _want_ to.”

Newton takes him back to his bedroom, and then he pushes Hermann on the edge of the bed and hops up onto his lap and shoves his tongue into Hermann’s mouth once more. Newton did not take the time to clean off his face, but Hermann can’t bring himself to be even mildly disgusted over how messy he is. It’s a little  _exciting_ , knowing he’s the one responsible. “Mm,” Newton says, rubbing against Hermann, and “mmph,” and “hmmm?”

Hermann pulls away. “What are you saying?”

“Can I fuck you?” Newton says.

Hermann would never admit it to Newton, but he has thought about Newton fucking him a  _lot_. “If you’d like,” he says, casually, doing his best to pretend that his heart isn’t racing, that he isn’t half-hard again at the mere thought of Newton inside him, that he’s definitely,  _definitely_ done this before.

“Cool!” Newton half-shouts. He tumbles from Hermann’s lap and hurries to his dresser, then yanks out a brand new bottle of lube and a completely unwrapped box of condoms. He throws both at Hermann; Hermann just barely catches them.

“These are unwrapped,” Hermann says, staring at the box.

“Well, yeah,” Newton says, shucking his shirt and jeans off so fast Hermann fears he’ll tangle himself up in them. “What did you expect?”

“Er,” Hermann says.

“I bought them, like, three years ago,” Newton continues, throwing his tie off into a dark corner and tugging off his socks. “I was like, one day Hermann’s going to fuck me, or I’m going to fuck Hermann, and I’m going to be  _ready_.”

This gives Hermann some pause. “Haven’t you needed to  _use_ them?”

Newton snorts. “Uh, no.” He finally catches sight of Hermann’s mildly alarmed expression. “Hermann. Didn’t you know that–I mean–I’ve never done this before. At all. I’ve just been kind of going along with what you’re doing.”

Hermann thinks he should be surprised–Newton is  _Newton_ –but it would certainly explain his lack of finesse. “Thank God,” Hermann breathes. “I haven’t either.”

Newton cycles through about five emotions–surprise, disbelief, confusion, sadness, happiness–before finally deciding on  _disappointed._ “So you didn’t lose it in five seconds just because I was so awesome at blowing you?”

“Oh, darling, no,” Hermann lies soothingly, “don’t be put out, of  _course_ that’s why.”

He opens his arms, and Newton trips back over into them, mollified, and nuzzles against his chest. “Mm,” Newton says. “Okay.”


	137. touch-starved hermann (part...infinity)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Touch-starved Hermann prompt: Pre-relationship during one of their meals in the dinner hall, Newton sits beside Hermann and wraps his arm around Hermann in a friendly manner. Hermann is so startled that he chokes on his food, embarrassed as hell when Newton is forced to try and help him out.

Hermann has spent so long with Newton practically glued to his side that it doesn’t even register when Newton witnesses him doing something embarrassing or abysmally human anymore at this point. Newton’s seen him soaking wet and half-nude in the spray of the emergency decontamination shower. He’s seen Hermann in mismatched socks and inside-out sweaters and slacks with coffee stains down one leg on mornings when he’s too exhausted to dress himself properly. He’s seen Hermann mistake old mugs buried beneath papers for his new ones and drink weeks-old tea, he’s seen Hermann (and  _tended_ to Hermann) shivering and sneezing and retching and clammy with illness, he’s seen Hermann taking illicit smoke breaks he lied about swearing off years ago, he’s seen Hermann drunk, he’s seen Hermann hungover, he’s seen Hermann forcing back angry tears as he shouts over the phone to his father, he’s seen Hermann upend entire bowls of soup down his shirt and not even notice. He’s seen Newton do just as much.

There’s something particularly embarrassing about this, though, something that makes Hermann’s skin crawl and his shoulders hunch into a full-bodied cringe like nothing else (not shrug it off, like usual, or even weakly laugh at himself alongside Newton), because he’s choked on food in front of Newton before, but it’s never been because Newton  _touched_ him.

Newton had only meant to be companionable. Newton had only meant to continue it being Good Day for both of them, no fights, no arguments, not even the slightest disagreement, just Newton working happily and Hermann working happily and occasionally offering  _actually wanted_ insights. He’d meant it as a friendly gesture, Hermann’s sure. But the fact of the matter is that Newton touched him–Newton set his tray on the table and squeezed in next to him and wrapped one of his arms around Hermann’s waist, fingers curling over Hermann’s side, knee knocking Hermann’s under the table, breath hot on Hermann’s ear as he tried to whisper something he overheard someone or another say–and Hermann seized up and panicked.

After Newton pounds on Hermann’s back until Hermann coughs up a minuscule bit of pasta, he looks at Hermann like he’s grown a second head. “You okay, dude?” he says.

“I,” Hermann says, his face burning. “Er. I swallowed–wrong.” He coughs a few more times in hopes of distraction and rights his glasses.

Newton laughs, obviously still a little bewildered, but doesn’t push Hermann for more. “O _kay_ ,” he says. His arm, which he’d dropped from Hermann in his haste to help him, winds around Hermann’s waist slowly, and he leans back in and drops his voice back to a whisper. “So,” he says, “like I was saying–”

“Hm,” Hermann says, feigning interest as Newton launches into a story Hermann only catches every fourth word of. His body feels hot all over; blood rushes so loudly in his ears he can barely hear; Newton’s arm is strong and solid, and his grip on Hermann’s waist is just as much so, and his nose keeps bumping the shell of Hermann’s ear and Hermann’s breath hitches higher each time. 

“Are you even paying attention?” Newton finally says, tone accusatory. Hermann did not realize he’d shut his eyes, too lost in the warmth and the alien sensation of being pressed-up tight and close to Newton (being pressed-up tight and close to  _anyone_ ), and he opens them now to see Newton frowning.

Hermann clears his throat. “Er. Yes. I am. My apologies.” Unable to stop himself, his eyes dart down to Newton’s curled fingers; Newton notices and drops his hand quickly, frown contorting into something regretful and apologetic. (No, Hermann swallows the urge to shout, to protest, no, keep it there, please, don’t stop.)

“S’cool,” Newton says, looking embarrassed himself. “Sorry, for–doing that.” He refuses to meet Hermann’s eyes for the rest of dinner.

(Hermann replays it all over and over in his head that night as he falls asleep, heart beating fast at the mere memory: Newton’s confident touch, Newton’s warm breath and low, excited voice, how closehe’d been to Hermann, how close  _they’d_ been, nothing like Hermann’s ever felt before, and Hermann lays there and  _wants_ so badly it aches him.)


	138. napping together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> hey uhhh if you're up for a prompt could u do the science gays napping together after long days in the lab i love u

Newt doesn’t make a habit out of mothering Hermann–Hermann would kill him, for one thing, for another, Newt lacks the kind of gentle loving spirit required–but sometimes the guy just so obviously  _needs_ it, you know? Sometimes Newt’ll take one look at Hermann and think oh, God, someone get this guy a blanket and a bowl of soup. Or better yet, a hug. Hermann doesn’t look he’s ever been hugged in his life (even if Newt does his very best to remedy that these days). And Newt  _tries_ to mind his own business, he really does, and he’s been minding it all day, ever since Hermann showed up with dark circles under his eyes and a dirty sweater, but Hermann looks like he’s going to collapse at any second and Newt won’t stand for it. The final straw is when Hermann spills his mug of tea and doesn’t even notice–that’s when Newt moves into action and yanks his work gloves off and marches his way over to Hermann’s half of the lab.

“Hermann,” he says sharply, grabbing Hermann by the elbow, and Hermann startles and drops his chalk and sways on his feet and shifts all his weight to his cane. Newt knows there’s a slim chance of Hermann actually falling (he’s pretty sure he’s seen Hermann sleep standing up before) but he can’t help but tuck his arm around Hermann just in case. “Hermann,” he repeats, a little softer. “Let’s get you to bed, buddy, okay?”

“I’m not tired,” Hermann snaps, and reaches for a new piece of chalk. He fumbles it three times before he’s able to wrap his fingers around it. Newt squeezes his side.

“Sleep,” he says. “Seriously.”

Hermann chews on his lower lip for a few seconds, then sets the chalk back on the ledge with a dramatic sigh, though he looks–secretly–grateful. “Fine.”

Hermann does not protest when Newt physically steers him out and down the hall to his bunk, which is a warning sign in and of itself, but Newt knows it’s  _really_ serious when he lets Newt strip him down to his boxers and socks and greying undershirt and push him onto the edge of his unmade bed.

“Jeez, Hermann,” Newt says, folding Hermann’s clothing before Hermann can yell at him to. “How late were you up?” Hermann left the lab before  _he_ did.

Hermann sighs. “I can’t sleep anymore,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face, and his shoulders curl forward. “I keep thinking of all the work we’ve still to do, and…”

Hermann looks small like this, small and vulnerable, buttoned-up professional front he usually presents to the world (to Newt) vanished, and Newt wants to– _hold_ him, or something. Tell him everything’s going to be okay, and that they’re going to be okay. (Hermann’s socks are argyle: the observation makes Newt’s chest feel funny.)

“Lie down,” Newt says, and strips off his jeans and t-shirt. He’s not wearing an undershirt like Hermann, so Hermann will just have to deal with him in his boxers. It’s nothing Hermann hasn’t seen before, but he stares at Newt in shock anyway. Newt shrugs and grins. “I bet you’ll sleep way better if I’m here,” he says. It’s been a long day of work for both of them, anyway. Newt could use a nap.

“I doubt  _that_ ,” Hermann says with a snort, but he obeys Newt and lays back against his pillows.

He watches Newt expectantly as Newt folds his clothes and sets them neatly with Hermann’s, then as he shuts off Hermann’s bedside light, then as he sets his glasses down. When Newt curls up against him, Hermann wraps his arms around him instantly and presses his face to the crook of his neck. “Comfy?” Newt says, and Hermann nods.

“Thank you, Newton,” Hermann says, so quiet that Newt can barely hear him, and Newt waits until Hermann’s breathing gives way to gentle snoring before he shuts his eyes himself.


	139. greaser newt part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brianmayplease asked:  
> If you write more newmann 50s au,,, i shall perish.... I love it

“Hiya, honey,” Newton says, dropping down from Hermann’s windowsill with a smile. Hermann looks up from the textbook he’s poring over–his Calculus final is in a few days, and then he’ll, blessedly, be finished with university for the summer–and smiles back, unfazed by his boyfriend’s sudden appearance. He’s grown used to Newton dropping in whenever he pleases these days. (The first time it happened, late one evening while Hermann’s vision was half-blurred with exhaustion, Hermann threw a shoe and nearly shrieked before the blurry dark shape started swearing violently and shouting about Hermann cracking his glasses. Newton made sure to be less suspicious after that.) 

“Hello,” Hermann says, setting down his pen and inching his chair away from his desk so Newton can straddle his lap and kiss him hello. His chair creaks slightly, but holds their weight, and Newton reaches down and rubs at Hermann’s long, soft pink skirt, the kind that’s all the rage these days. Hermann doesn’t usually bother with the modern fashions–he’s perfectly fine with his elder brother’s hand-me-downs and whatever dresses and skirts his sister tires of–but he’s been saving up money from his campus job at the library and thought he’d buy himself something nice. Something nice, and something that he knew Newton would be sweet for.

(He won’t tell Newton this, but he wore it today with the express hope that he’d see Newton and be able to show it off.)

“This is real cute on you,” Newton says. “New?”

“Mmhmm,” Hermann says, running his fingers through the greased-down hair at the back of Newton’s head. “I bought it last week.” 

“I love it,” Newton says, slipping his hand down further to rub at one of Hermann’s exposed calves. “I’m gonna buy you fifty more.”

Hermann means to make a remark about how that  _really_ isn’t necessary, but Newton’s shifted his attention back into kissing Hermann and it doesn’t seem all too-crucial. Newton smells like motor oil, which means he’s been working in the garage all afternoon, and Hermann suddenly, belatedly, worries that Newton is dirtying up his clothing. (Not only is the skirt new, he’s just washed this button-up.) Thankfully, Newton slips back to the floor before Hermann has to say anything. “Can you still go out dancing Saturday?” he says, adjusting his leather jacket and then pushing his hair back into place. He lets one strand curl down on his forehead. “I just fixed up the back wheel on my bike so I can pick you up on it, really piss off your old man.”

“I’d love to,” Hermann sighs, because it’s what they do every Saturday: Newton makes some grand scene in Hermann’s front yard with his bike and his jacket and his loud mouth, and Hermann’s father will storm outside and shout at him until Newton peals away with Hermann wrapped round his back, both of them giggling like mad, “but–”

“And you can wear that pretty skirt,” Newton says, eyes flicking low to the bottom hem.

“I can’t go,” Hermann says. 

Newton’s eyes snap up. He frowns. “What? Why?”

“Mother’s having a garden party,” Hermann says. “She and father want me there.”

Newton’s frown deepens to a pout. “Aw,  _man_.”

The Gottliebs rarely have garden parties, and even more rarely require Hermann to be there during them, but Father’s dead-set on impressing some new business partners and even more dead-set on finding Hermann a proper, wealthy, and upstanding new suitor from their pool of proper, wealthy, and upstanding sons. That is to say: a suitor who is not Newton. “I’m sorry,” Hermann says. “You know how much I loathe going to these.”

“Yeah,” Newton says, glumly. Then he brightens up. “Hey, what if I crash it?”

“Well,” Hermann says. “I  _suppose_  you could–”

“I’ll dress nice,” Newton says. “I promise. I’ll borrow my dad’s suit or something!”

“Er,” Hermann says. He’d love to have Newton there–he’d love it more than anything–but he  _knows_ he’d be getting himself in trouble, he knows he’d be getting Newton in trouble, he knows he’ll be distracted in moments flat when Newton lures him away to neck in the hydrangea bushes like he did when he came for dinner last spring and he’ll really get an earful later, but… “Fine,” he finally says, “but you really must be on your best behavior, Newton.”

“Sure,” Newton says. “Of course.”

“I mean it,” Hermann says. “And you really must dress nicely.” He’s seen Newton in exactly two things that aren’t his usual scruffy-dirty-ripped jeans and leather jacket–a scandalously short green dress that Newton sometimes wears dancing and the aforementioned borrowed suit–so he doesn’t have much confidence in the latter. Perhaps Newton  _will_ wear the green dress. It’ll get him less looks than his jacket.

Newton smiles beatifically. 

* * *

Hermann holds out a full thirty minutes before disappearing into the hydrangea bushes with Newton this time. He’s frankly impressed with himself he lasted this long. Newton did  _not_ dress up nicely, whatsoever, even if his selected jeans are moderately less torn than usual, but his plain white shirt stretches so tight across his chest that Hermann was dry-mouthed even before Newton started playing footsie with him under the patio table (much to the confusion of the flirtatious proper, wealthy, and upstanding young gentleman sitting at Hermann’s elbow, who couldn’t understand why his flattery and praise of Hermann’s work in astronomy was getting him absolutely nowhere). “You’re a scoundrel,” he sighs in Newton’s ear, and Newton laughs against his neck.

“I can’t help it,” he says. “You look so  _cute_ , Hermann. Yellow looks nice on you.”

Hermann’s borrowed a dress from his sister again, a yellow flowered sundress with a skirt that swishes and flairs out and a small white collar, and Newton’s managed to stain it with his grease-dark fingertips already. (He loathes having to face her wrath tomorrow, as it’s one of the things she  _hasn’t_ tired of yet, but Hermann expects he’ll be able to talk his way out of it somehow.) “Don’t you ever wash your hands?” Hermann scolds, swatting Newton’s hand away as it starts to creep up his thigh. When Newton’s not covered in car grease and oil, he’s covered in strange chemicals from his garage laboratory or the remnants of whatever his last meal was. Today it seems to be a mixture of all three, most noticeably the horrendous green gelatin concoction a neighbor brought that only Newton had been brave enough to try.

Newton pulls his hand away and blinks at it. “Whoops,” he says. “Sorry.” He wipes it off on his jeans, then dives right back in to sucking on Hermann’s neck.

“Below the collar,” Hermann wheezes, gripping at Newton’s back with his free hand. “Below–” Newton undoes his top few buttons–shaped like small daisies–and yanks the fabric aside to nip at his collarbone instead. He’ll  _die_  of embarrassment if his parents see him with lovebites from Newton, even if the thought of parading them about thrills him endlessly.

“Oh!” Newton suddenly says, snapping up, and Hermann swallows down a disappointed groan. “I got you these.” He pulls a handful of wilted, slightly squished-looking daisies from his right pocket and presents them with a flourish. “Snagged ‘em from someone’s garden on the way here. They match you!”

He holds one up to the buttons, then tucks it behind Hermann’s ear, and Hermann–overcome with affection–fists his fingers in the front of Newton’s white shirt and pulls him fully into the bushes.


	140. touch-starved hermann, sleeping chest-to-chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Touch-starved Hermann prompt because I am simply hooked on them! After a rough day in the lab, Hermann is feeling tired and shaky. So he lies down on the couch, Newton walks in and even tho he is embarrassed as hell to say it, Hermann asks Newton to lie down on top of him, chest to chest. Even though it is a weird request, Newt is not gonna say no to that.

Hermann was expecting snide remarks, some teasing, maybe aggressive urging for Hermann to get some damn  _sleep_ before he dooms them all with his messy, sloppy calculations, but when Newton comes back from his lunch break and stands at the end of the lab couch it’s in pure silence. Pure confused silence, Hermann presumes. Hermann does not take naps during the work day, and he certainly does not take them in the lab. That would be wildly unprofessional of him. He does not nap, and he is not napping now. He’s merely…overwhelmed by everything. He needed a break. He needed– _comfort_ , of a sort.

“Uh,” Newton finally says. “You okay, dude?”

“Mmhm,” Hermann says, and he pushes his glasses up to massage the bridge of his nose. He adds, after another moment’s thought, “Actually. Newton…”

“Yeah?”

Hermann finally cracks his eyes open. Newton does not  _look_  amused, either, nor like he may start teasing at any moment. He looks worried. Hermann forgets, sometimes, that Newton is not all obnoxious abrasiveness–that Newton can be caring, Newton can be thoughtful, Newton can still be the man whose letters made Hermann’s heart flutter all those years ago. “Would you like to do me a favor?”

Newton  _hm_ s sympathetically. “Migraine?” he says. “Need me to get your medication?”

“Ah. Not quite,” Hermann says. He rests his arms at his sides. “Would you–well.” He flushes. “Would you lay on top of me?”

Newton laughs.

Hermann does not laugh.

Newton shuts his mouth. “Oh, shit, sorry. You’re serious?”

Hermann nods.

He does not expect the speed at which Newton kicks off his boots (unlaced) or shucks off his leather jacket, nor at how surprisingly gentle he is when he settles himself down atop Hermann, nudging Hermann’s knees together to straddle them properly. The effect–of Newton, soft and warm and solid and  _touching_ , pressed chest to chest–is instantaneous, and it’s everything Hermann needed. He shuts his eyes, groans, sags back against the couch cushions, breathes in the strange mingling scents of Newton’s aftershave and whatever spicy thing he ate for lunch and got all over his shirt. When Newton does not stiffen in discomfort, Hermann takes his chances and presses his hand, very gently, to Newton’s back and feels the rise and fall as he breathes.

“Hermann,” Newton whispers, “this is good? Is this–”

“This is perfect,” Hermann says. How strange it is, he thinks, to have Newton so close to him, on top of him, but nowhere near in the way he’d always hoped for and fantasized of. He rubs at Newton’s back. “It’s perfect, Newton. Thank you.” Newton breathes (in, out), and Hermann breathes (out, in), perfect opposites in perfect tandem. 

“Is this…something you need a lot?” Newton sounds hesitant, like he’s afraid of insulting Hermann in some way, or overstepping his boundaries. Hermann does not like to be coddled, but Newton’s concern is strangely sweet. He decides Newton deserves candidness.

“It is,” Hermann confesses; he usually makes do with a heated blanket or a body pillow. (The illusion of being close to someone to ground him.) Newton is far better than any artificial stand-in.

“Okay,” Newton says. “Well, you got me. For–you know.”

“You mustn’t feel obliged–” Hermann begins.

“I don’t,” Newton says shortly. He’s grinning sheepishly when Hermann opens his eyes again, and he bumps the tips of their noses together. “It’s not like it’s a huge fucking sacrifice for me, Hermann. I like it. A lot.”

Hermann’s own lips curl into a smile, and he slides his hand up to the back of Newton’s neck. Newton sighs happily; his eyes are soft as he gazes at Hermann. (Interesting, Hermann thinks. He must file this all away for later.) “Thank you,” Hermann repeats.


	141. chest-to-chest part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> C-can I ask for a sequel to the "newt lying on top of Hermann" thing where they do it again in Hermann's quarters and it turns into kissing and hermann cries?

They’ve only done this once after the incident in the lab. Hermann hadn’t even initiated the last one–Newton merely saw him stressed and exhausted, then followed him back to his room to take care of him, unprompted. This time is prompted. This time, as they put away their work for the day, Hermann cleared his throat and announced that, if Newton was game, he wouldn’t mind him coming over that evening. Newton was game.

He’s in a soft old band t-shirt and grey sweatpants (also soft) when he knocks on Hermann’s door, and–as Hermann arranges himself on his bed–Newton kicks off his boots and Hermann sees that he’s wearing thick, striped socks. It’s gratifying to know it’s all for Hermann’s benefit. The last time, Newton wore jeans and his usual work button-down, and while it was hardly any different from before, Newton seemed to pick up on the fact that Hermann would much prefer him in more  _comfortable_ clothes.

He climbs gently on top of Hermann, taking care to tuck the blanket over them, and smiles once he’s settled in and they’re both comfortable. “Hi,” he says, as Hermann sighs pleasantly at the physical contact. “How was your day?”

“I saw you not two hours ago,” Hermann says.

“Two hours is a long time,” Newton says. “Anything could’ve happened.” His hands catch Hermann’s, and he rubs his thumbs against his palms. It feels nice. It feels very nice.  _Hermann_ feels very nice; his eyes threaten to droop shut. Newton didn’t do this the last time. “You smell good.”

“Mm?” Hermann says.

Newton’s smile brightens. “You smell good,” he repeats. He grazes his fingertips up Hermann’s arms, and it’s as if a fuzzy static’s begun to settle over Hermann’s brain.

“Yes, well,” he says, “er, I took a shower beforehand.” He wanted everything to be perfect for Newton.

Newton’s fingers move past Hermann’s shoulders, up Hermann’s neck, and he ruffles Hermann’s hair. It’s still damp. “I can tell,” he says. His fingers drift down, now, and settle on the curve of Hermann’s jaw, thumb rubbing at his chin. Hermann’s face grows warm.

“Newton,” he says.

“I’ve always thought your eyes were pretty,” Newton says. “I love brown eyes.”

“So are yours,” Hermann croaks out, immediately. “I mean–your eyes are lovely, too.” Hermann’s always loved the look of Newton’s eyes, too.

“You’ve got such pretty eyelashes,” Newton continues, “and pretty cheekbones, a pretty mouth–”

Hermann laughs, but it comes out shaky. “A pretty  _mouth_ , Newton?” He’s well aware his lips are too–well– _thin_  to be what most would consider attractive.

“The prettiest,” Newton says. His smile, soft and small, makes Hermann nearly as dizzy as the closeness does. “Half the time I just wanna…”

Even as he watches determination settle over Newton’s features, Newton’s tongue dart out over his lower lip, Newton’s eyes flicker shut, Newton’s face loom closer to his own, Hermann is not expecting the kiss when it comes. And when it does come, it’s  _overwhelming_ , more overwhelming than any hug Newton’s given him, than any gentle brushing of hands could ever be: Newton’s mouth on  _his_ mouth, the familiar smell of him (mixed with his laundry detergent), soft t-shirt that Hermann finds himself clinging to. “Hermann,” Newton breathes, then kisses him again, harder, gripping the sides of his face, and he giggles, half-deliriously, “wow, Hermann…”

Newton kisses him, and he kisses him, and Hermann stays very still and doesn’t quite kiss back, but doesn’t wish for it to stop any time soon either. He, frankly, doesn’t wish for it to stop ever. He likes it. It’s nice. It’s wonderful. He likes– _loves_ –touching Newton, and Newton’s just found a new way for them to do it.

Newton notices Hermann’s crying before Hermann even does.

“Oh, God,” Newton says, panicking instantly and trying to push himself away, but Hermann (tears running down his cheeks freely now) only clings to him tighter in his lovesick confusion. “Do you not–? I’m sorry, dude, lemme–”

“No,” Hermann gasps, because he needs Newton like this, “no, Newton, I do, keep–please–”

He’s ready for it when Newton kisses him this time, and he’s ready for it when Newton slides his lips over his chin, his throat, the skin under his ear, every spot on Hermann’s face he can conceivably reach, breathing Hermann’s name over and over. “Is this good?” he finally asks, and Hermann nods, a small sob welling up in the back of his throat. It’s all so good, all so wonderful.

“ _Yes_ , Newton,” he manages to say, and Newton kisses him until they’re both teary-eyed and giggling into the kisses.


	142. "but i'm keeping the parka on" (mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If you're after a NSFW prompt - anything based on the gif that says "you can fuck me but I'm keeping the parka on" 😘😘😘

Newt has to stay late at the university for a Biology department meeting–a whole extra two hours–and when he isn’t thinking about his poor husband sitting alone and unloved and cold in their apartment, he’s thinking about his husband naked and hot and sweaty and on top of Newt, and naked and hot and sweaty and below Newt, and gasping  _oh, Newton!_ , and making those weird grunting noises and that weird face he always does when he comes. It’s not really a sexy face, more like he just bit into a lemon or he’s about to start yelling at Newt, but fuck if Newt doesn’t love it. Newt loves everything about Hermann. Fucking infatuated with the guy.

Poor Hermann, stuck at home while Newt’s here. Maybe he’ll be so excited to see Newt that he just falls into his arms the second Newt walks in the front door. Maybe he’ll be naked. Maybe he’ll be naked in  _bed_ (that’s definitely it), he just missed Newt so bad that he couldn’t help but start touching himself, and he’ll say  _Come here, darling_ when Newt walks in the door, and Newt can rail Hermann until they both see stars, and Hermann will make that sexy face and shout all sorts of things about how good and awesome and gorgeous Newt is. Hermann’s probably touching himself right now, Newt decides. He definitely is. He’s probably so lonely.

Newt should be there.

He  _really_ should, actually. Why isn’t he?

Newt stands up suddenly, chair squeaking as it nearly topples over. “I have an emergency at home,” he blurts out.

The head of the department nods, mildly bewildered–Newt cut him off mid-sentence–so Newt snatches his jacket up from the back of his chair and speed-walks out.

Hermann’s not naked and begging for Newt to take him in their front hallway when Newt basically kicks down their apartment door, nor is he in their front hallway fully-clothed and telling Newt how muchhe missed him. It’s fine–that just means he’s definitely either in the living room or their bedroom. Newt’d prefer the bedroom, but he can make the living room work. They fucked on the lab couch plenty of times back in the day. Living room couch is hardly any different. It’s bigger, even. “Hermann?” Newt calls.

“Here,” Hermann calls back. Living room couch it is, then.

Newt strips off his leather jacket, his scarf, his gloves, trips over and nearly smashes into the small mirror hanging in the hallway when he tries to take off his snowy boots. When he’s finally down to his jeans and the sweater he stole from Hermann, he stumbles into the living room, ready to fall on his  _definitely_ naked husband and just start going to town immediately. (His poor, lonely, naked husband, needing a big strong biologist to take good care of him.) “Dude,” he says, tearing the sweater off over his head, “I am so  _fucking_  horny right now.”

Hermann is not naked. Nor does he look remotely like he wants to be naked any time soon. He’s bundled up in what’s gotta be at least five layers, ridiculous parka pulled over top and zipped all the way to his nose, hood pulled up, too. Newt’s not sure how he can even see the television. He’s also not sure how Hermann hasn’t keeled over from heatstroke; it may be fucking freezing outside, but Hermann keeps their apartment at a brisk 80-F (slight exaggeration, only slight) in addition to his current layered state.

“You’re  _what_?” Hermann says, and Newt can, at least, see his eyes squinting suspiciously behind his glasses.

“Horny,” Newt says. He drops the sweater; Hermann doesn’t even look at his chest, which is a bad sign. Hermann loves Newt’s chest. “Uh. Hi, honey. You look–” He fishes around for something that’s not  _puffy. “–_ really sexy.”

Now that Newt says it, he realizes Hermann  _does_ look sexy. The parka’s dumb-looking and too big for Hermann, but it’s also cute on him, and just makes Newt want to do debased and horny things to him, repeatedly and thoroughly. (Newt really, really wants to have sex with Hermann right now.)

Hermann squints suspiciously some more. “We are not having sex,” he says, finally.

“Hermann,” Newt whines.

“It’s freezing out,” Hermann says, tugging his blanket tighter around himself, “and  _I’m_ freezing.”

Sex warms people up. Hermann knows that. Newt drops to his knees in front of Hermann, ready to plead his case, ready to beg for just–Hermann  _graciously allowing_ Newt to go down on him and make Hermann feel amazing, even. Newt’ll take that and nothing more. “Please,” Newt whines, eyeing up the general area of the lower half of Hermann’s body beneath his blanket. “Really fast. I’ll keep you warm, Hermann, honey–”

Hermann sighs, then reaches out and touches the side of Newt’s face. “ _Alright_ , darling,” he says, and he can sound as exasperated as he wants, but Newt can see his broad smile beneath that parka. Bastard just wanted to see Newt beg. (Newt kind of loves when Hermann makes him beg for it.) “You can fuck me–” Newt maybe moans a little, but he can’t help it, it’s super hot when Hermann curses. “– _but_ I’m keeping the parka on.”

“Works for me,” Newt says, and scrambles up onto his husband’s lap to start kissing him eagerly.


	143. sledding for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Newmann with 33 please? Because you know that Hermann's dad would never let him go sledding or do anything fun as a child, so Newt makes it his personal mission to give Hermann the maximum sledding experience without any pain to his bad leg.
> 
> 33: we don’t know each other that well but i found out that you’ve never been sledding and feel like it’s my personal mission to change that  
> (adjusted slightly to “theyre married actually” bc i kinda wrote this before i read the whole prompt LOL)

“Trust me,” Newt says, and he smiles back at Hermann over his shoulder. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, maybe; there are a  _lot_ of bad things that could happen. A lot of things that could go wrong. Newt’s like a walking beacon for bad things, and things going wrong, and disasters in general. He doesn’t blame Hermann for looking nervous, nor for the way he grips tighter to Newt’s waist, nor for the small panicked noise he makes in the back of his throat at Newt’s less-than-reassuring words.

“This is a bad idea,” Hermann says. “This is a very bad idea, Newton.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Newt says cheerfully.

The thing is, bad idea or not, it’s all Hermann’s fault to begin with. Or maybe technically it’s Hermann’s dad fault. It’s snowing–like, snowing a bunch, enough that the university forced them to cancel their lectures, enough that Newt had to work his vastly under-used (and mostly nonexistent) muscles after months of laziness and shovel out their front walk way, enough that one could, conceivably, find a nice big hill and spend an afternoon sledding down it to their heart’s content. Newt expressed such a sentiment to Hermann wistfully as they cuddled on their couch and watched snow drift gently past their big bay windows.

(“Like being a kid again,” he said after posing the sledding observation to Hermann, all while Hermann did his very best to distract him with making out, and Hermann grazed his teeth at Newt’s ear and said, “Father would never allow me,” and then tried to worm his hand up Newt’s sweater, and Newt startled so bad he made Hermann jump and  _actually_ bite Newt’s ear and then yelped “ _What_?” because it shouldn’t surprise him but, goddamn, Hermann’s dad really did a number on his kids, and now they’re here, all the way out at the hill down the road with a sled Newt bought off their thirteen-year-old neighbor for $20 and a promise to take good care of it.)

“You just gotta hold on to me,” Newt says, as if Hermann isn’t already clinging to him for dear life. He smiles reassuringly again and pats Hermann’s hand. “I’ve got you, honey.”

Hermann makes that distressed noise again. After making sure he’s properly arranged, that his leg is propped at an angle alongside Newt’s that’s not uncomfortable, Newt grips the sled’s rope handle with one hand and pushes them off with the other.

Newt’s shared most of his adult life with Hermann (all the way from the tender age of twenty-three), and as of late, a good deal of that shared time’s been spent making up for all the shit Hermann missed out on growing up. Or even beyond growing up–all the shit Hermann was too self-restrained or frugal or isolated to do as an adult. Newt takes Hermann to amusement parks (where he spoils him with cotton candy and wins him huge stuffed animals in games that are probably scams), and beaches (where they have fancy drinks with tiny paper umbrellas and Newt rubs Hermann’s sunblock in  _very_ thoroughly), all the nerdy museums Hermann’s nerdy heart could possibly desire (Newt even lets Hermann do the audio tours), and he cooks him food Hermann’s never tried but always waned to and books him long massages at fancy spas and picks out soft clothing that actually fits him and kisses him a  _bunch_ (every day, all the time, all day if Hermann would let him, and sometimes he does), but he never realized sledding was something he’d have to add to the list. What else was Hermann not allowed to do as a kid? Fingerpaint? Watch cartoons? Find cool bugs in creeks and play in mud? Fucking tragedy.

Hermann’s shrieking. It takes Newt a while to realize that’s what that ringing in his ears is.

“Isn’t this fun?” he shouts back at Hermann, as wind whips back his hair and scarf and snowflakes fly at his glasses and blind him; he can’t exactly see where they’re going, so he hopes they’re not about to hit a tree or a small child or anything.

Hermann keeps shrieking. And shrieking.

When they hit the bottom of the hill, it’s not nearly as graceful as Newt hoped it’d be: the sled stops, but  _they_  don’t, and they tumble off into the snow in a chaotic tangle of limbs and winter coats, Newt’s glasses flying off in one direction and his Hermann-knitted hat in another. He takes all of Hermann’s weight when he lands on top of Newt, and they grunt painfully in unison. At least Hermann’s stopped shrieking, even though that probably means he’s about to start yelling at Newt instead.

“Uh, well,” Newt says. “How was that?”

He can only just make out Hermann’s face where it hovers a few inches above him–no details, only vague and blurry shapes, Hermann’s messy dark hair, his round granny glasses that somehow remained completely in place, the snowflakes that drift around him. Then, to his surprise, Hermann kisses him. “You moron,” he says, far too affectionately, “you’ll be the death of me.”

Newt grins and drags him by the ugly parka in for another kiss. “But it was fun?”

“I suppose,” Hermann says. “Though I’m not overly fond of the prospect of walking back  _up_.”

It is a pretty big hill, which already sucks, and on top of that Newt talked Hermann out of bringing his cane, which seemed like a great idea at the time (he can walk pretty okay without it, so long as he has Newt’s arm to lean on) but is giving Newt serious doubts now. “Tell you what,” Newt says. “I’ll carry you.”

He knows Hermann likes it when he works those barely-there muscles, and that Hermann likes it even more when he works those muscles on  _Hermann_ , so he’s not all that surprised when Hermann kisses him once more in response and rubs their pink noses together. Newt’s going to cuddle the shit out of him later. “Mm. Alright.”

“Ideally, though,” Newt says, squinting up at Hermann, “we find my glasses first.  _Technically_ that’s my spare pair, so–”


	144. inexperienced and self-conscious hermann (mild nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> So I’m nearly twenty eight and still haven’t had sex (or a relationship) and been feeling kind of down about lately. Could you write something about either Hermann or Newt being self-conscious (Hermann would probably be the one more self-conscious about being sexually inexperienced) about not having had sex, and of course being vehemently comforted (in the non sexy and sexy ways haha!) and told there’s nothing wrong about it. PS. You are an amazing writer!!!! Keep up the amazing work!

“It’s not that weird,” Newton says. “It’s not weird at all, actually. I didn’t until I was almost thirty.”

Newton’s touches are sweet and gentle, and his kisses are even more so, and they should reassure Hermann, they should  _please_  Hermann, but Hermann–suddenly overwhelmed by the notion that  _Newton’s done this before and Hermann hasn’t,_ what if he  _disappoints_ Newton?–only frowns and ducks away from him. “How many times have you…?”

“Does it matter?” Newton laughs, but sobers up when he sees Hermann’s deadly serious. “Alright,” he says. “Ten times. Three different guys.” He cards his fingers through Hermann’s hair and leaves a trail of feather-light kisses up his sternum. It feels  _good_ , but it’s not nearly enough to distract Hermann.

“Three different men,” Hermann says. He does not know if that’s particularly impressive or not. He does know it’s impressive to him.

“Mm.” Newton starts unbuttoning Hermann’s shirt. “They were nice,” he says, “but they weren’t you.” He noses against Hermann’s newly-bared throat. “None of them were grumpy enough, or stuffy enough, or smart enough, or hot enough–”

“Hush,” Hermann says, and shuts his eyes in embarrassment. Newton laughs again, and his fingers dip lower, parting Hermann’s now-undone shirt to pet at his chest and pectorals. When he touches Hermann’s nipple, Hermann’s whole body goes rigid. It’s like electricity.

“You’re so sensitive,” Newton says, sounding delighted. “Wow. Even I’m not that sensitive.” He pinches it, and Hermann has to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from shouting. Hermann didn’t know he was that sensitive; Hermann’s never felt anything like it in his life. Newton lowers his hand from Hermann’s pectoral in the faintest surprise. “Hermann, do you not–I mean–you do–” He curls his fingers into a loose fist and mimes something crude. “–jerk off, right?”

Hermann masturbates, but it’s always quick, always a chore, never an indulgence–he never touches his nipples (like Newton had) or anything along those lines. Hermann masturbates only when he has to, usually to some wildly inane thought, like Newton smiling at him and saying  _I love you, Hermann_ , or Newton stroking his face, or Newton making the strange little squeaky sounds he does when he drinks something hot and burns his tongue. Newton seems like the sort to masturbate because he  _wants_ to, the sort who likes sex toys that the very thought of makes Hermann flustered. “I masturbate,” Hermann says, a touch defensive.

Newton tweaks his nipple, then the other, then both at once, over and over and over, until Hermann is nearly writhing against Newton’s sheets. “But clearly not the right way,” Newton says, grinning from ear to ear.

“Not all of us are hedonists, Newton,” Hermann chokes out, and Newton snorts.

“Sex’s not hedonism, dude,” he says. “It’s just fun. Aren’t you having fun?”

Newton looks very handsome above him, only just illuminated by the bedside lamp Newton insisted on switching on. (Newton said he wants to be able to see everything. He wants to be able to see  _Hermann_ , in all his exciting, new reactions and feelings.) He hasn’t taken his glasses off. “I suppose,” Hermann says.

“There you have it,” Newton says. He doesn’t stop rolling his thumbs over Hermann’s nipples. “Anyway, if it matters, I’m glad that I get to be your first time. I’m gonna make it  _so_   _awesome_ for you, Hermann.”

Things progress from there. With every article of clothing Newton removes from Hermann, dozens of gentle kisses over the revealed skin follow, dozens of gentle touches, dozens of soft  _is this okay?_ and  _how do you feel?_ And it’s okay, it’s wonderful, Hermann  _feels_ wonderful, Hermann didn’t know he  _could_ feel this wonderful.Newton possesses a tenderness in bed Hermann did not know he was capable of, a tenderness that leaves Hermann breathless and starry-eyed and clinging to the man’s wrist at he takes Hermann into his hand and works him as gently as he’d done everything else. “Newton,” Hermann breathes, over and over, “oh, Newton–”

Newton kisses away his tears once he’s brought Hermann to orgasm, just as soft, gentle, tender. “It’s okay,” he says, soothingly, “you’re okay, Hermann, do you feel good? Was that good?” Hermann nods; Newton kisses his forehead. “Next time’ll be even better.”

Hermann had not considered a next time. “I love you,” he blurts out, unable to stop himself, and Newton beams and curls himself around him. Almost like a large cat.

“Hey, I love you too!” he says. “Ha. Awesome.”

Newton, Hermann realizes, hasn’t come yet. “Do you want me to–” Hermann begins, still breathing heavily, and Newton shakes his head.

“Nah, I can wait. I’m fine.” He makes a happy little noise when Hermann wraps his arm around him. “That feels nice. Can you play with my hair?” Hermann obliges. “Awesome,” Newton says again into his skin.

“Yes,” Hermann agrees, and he smiles against the side of Newton’s head.


	145. bad first meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Do you think Newt has issues about touch too? Like, Hermann had a pretty cold upbringing and may not have had too many (if any) intimate relationships so his issues make sense. But I can imagine Newton "will sleep with anyone who will have him" Geizler mistaking physical contact for actual affection and taking A LONG TIME to realize that people are just using him for sex because they know he's desperate for attention. Can you imagine how that would screw with his mind?

Everything with Hermann went spectacular, frankly, more spectacularly than Newt could’ve ever hoped for. That he imagined. He imagined a lot of things–he imagined Hermann as an uptight asshole who’d turn his nose up at everything Newt did, he imagined weirding Hermann out in the first ten seconds (he talks too fast, talks too  _much_ , has a tendency to shout and interrupt when he gets excited, and boy, does Hermann get him excited), he imagined an awkward silence over coffee for forty minutes as they made polite small talk until one of them found a way to excuse himself. He imagined Hermann inviting him up to his hotel room. He imagined that one a lot. 

None of those things happen. And that’s okay, frankly–it’s very, very okay. Hermann is amazing, Hermann is awkward, Hermann is funny, Hermann has a smile that makes Newt’s knees turn to jelly and he snorts when he  _really_ laughs and he twists his glasses chain in embarrassment when Newt compliments him too much, and Hermann is beautiful, Hermann is–not that Newt didn’t already know it–the love of his life, 100%, no questions.

Newt wants to drop to one knee right here in this coffee shop and ask Hermann to hyphenate their last names and adopt cats or 2.5 babies or whatever the fuck Hermann wants with him.

He doesn’t, but they do decide to go to dinner. Hermann’s treat.

“I insist,” he says over Newt’s protesting, and his toothy smile turns mischievous (and Newt’s heart twists and flips and God, he loves Hermann). “I informed my father about my meeting a  _very_ important colleague this weekend–purely to discuss business, of course–and he insisted on covering my expenses. I believe he’s under the impression you’re going to write us a check, or something along those lines.”

“I wonder why he thinks  _that_ ,” Newt says, grinning back. He’s hardly touched his iced coffee (that’s how  _absorbed_  he is by Hermann), just keeps playing with the straw.

“I may have implied you’re a tad bit more prestigious,” Hermann says. “And richer. And older. Regardless, it was the only way he’d’ve let me set aside our work for longer than an hour to meet you. If I’d told him that you’re–well.” He colors, and takes a comically long sip of coffee.

“That I’m what?” Newt’s grin widens. 

“We’re not exactly colleagues, are we?” Hermann says.

They’re not. They swap work, criticism, praise, suggest improvements and offer encouragements, but none of that can make up for the fact that Hermann’s very first letter to Newt was little more than fanmail, and that Newt’s reply was little more than the same, and that their current correspondence consists of personal anecdotes three-fourths of the time. Newt’s far more likely to ask after Hermann’s day than he is his latest project. “We’re not,” Newt agrees. 

“Dinner?” Hermann repeats, almost shyly, and Newt nods.

There’s a restaurant across the street from Newt’s hotel, and dinner goes even better than coffee. It goes  _really_ well. So well that Newt gets bold and invites Hermann up to his hotel room for drinks–on him, from the overpriced minibar, because if Hermann covers their overpriced dinner it’s only fair that Newt cover something, too, and Hermann (flushed pink and a little–adorably–giddy from his single glass of red wine) nods happily and accepts.

On the elevator ride up, with Hermann on his arm talking at length about how  _amazing_ Newt’s latest article was, Newt mulls it all over. Newt really likes Hermann. (Newt is head-over-heels in love with Hermann.) Newt’s liked people before Hermann, but no one’s ever liked Newt as much as he’s liked them. (Newt is a spectacularly bad judge of character.) There’s no way for Newt to  _be sure_ that Hermann is also head-over-heels in love with Newt. Hermann laughs at his jokes, doesn’t he? Is Hermann not practically draped over Newt right now? He bought Newt dinner, he’s coming up to Newt’s hotel room (how could he  _not_ know what Newt meant by drinks), he keeps touching Newt, keeps smiling at Newt, keeps telling Newt how brilliant and intelligent he is and how much he admires his work.  _We’re not exactly colleagues_.

“You have a balcony,” Hermann says in mild delight when Newt shows him in, and Newt’s not sure what he was going to say next (maybe ask if they could sit out on it, maybe if Newt would mind him using it to take a smoke break eventually, Newt’s really gotta get him out of that habit) because he shoves Hermann against the door and starts kissing him.

And Hermann clings to his jacket with one hand and kisses  _back._

When Newt pulls away, panting, Hermann’s smile (open-mouthed and wide and toothy) is so bright it almost aches to look at. “Oh, Newton,” Hermann says, in quiet wonder. “I’d always hoped–”

Score, Newt thinks, and he cuts Hermann off for a second time that night and goes back in, kissing harder, more insistently, shoving his tongue in Hermann’s mouth and running his hands up and down Hermann’s chest. Hermann’s sexy as hell under all those frumpy layers, Newt’s positive of it, probably got nice pecs–Newt bites down hard enough on Hermann’s lip to draw blood, and Hermann yelps a little and tightens his grip–and biceps that are just begging to be admired by someone like Newt. “Newton,” Hermann gasps when Newt switches to biting and sucking down his neck, “Newton, darling, wait–”

(No, Newt thinks, I can’t wait, we can’t wait, if we stop you’re going to realize you don’t actually want me and I’ll be alone–)

“Newton,” Hermann says, more firmly, and Newt realizes that Hermann  _means it_ so he immediately backs off. He’s made a mess of Hermann already: dorky haircut mussed, glasses fogged up, blazer askew, bitemarks purpling up his neck, pupils blown wide and dark and obscuring the warm, pretty brown of his eyes. It’s really hot. (Newt wants Hermann so bad, so, so bad, and he’s sure Hermann wants him, so why did Hermann want him to stop?) “Don’t you think we’re moving rather fast?”

All of Newt’s relationships move like this, and Newt entertains–briefly–the fact that Hermann  _isn’t like_ Newt’s other relationships, but the panic from earlier settles in (if they wait, if they don’t move fast, Hermann will realize he doesn’t want Newt) and is joined by a fresh  _new_ panic (Hermann doesn’t love Newt like that, Newt is scaring Hermann off with his feelings). Newt crooks his fingers through Hermann’s belt loops and forces himself to smile. “It’ll be  _fun_ ,” he says, with equally forced casualness. Nothing serious. Nothing groundbreaking. As far as Hermann’s concerned, it doesn’t have to mean anything at all.

Something shifts in Hermann’s expression. “Fun?” he echoes.

“We don’t have to make a whole big deal out of it,” Newt says, still so  _casual_. “We can just–”

It’s the wrong thing to say. The catastrophically wrong thing to say. Hermann shuts down entirely, places his hand on Newt’s chest and pushes him away, gathers up his discarded cane. “I see,” he says, icily. “Well. Thank you for your time, Newton.”

“Wait,” Newt says, panic rising fast in his chest, suffocating him, because _this isn’t what was supposed to happen_ (he was supposed to marry Hermann), but he should’ve expected it, really, he screws up everything. He grabs at Hermann’s sleeve. “Wait. Hermann–”

“And thank you for clarifying just  _exactly_ what I mean to you,” Hermann continues, wrenching his arm away. “Enjoy the rest of the conference.”

He storms out.

He doesn’t answer Newt’s texts that night.


	146. sickfic (+pen pals)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I’m stuck in bed w tonsillitis, can I pls pls pls have a bored and sick Newt fic because I am also bored and sick?

Hermann would never reveal this to Newton, but one of the reasons he saved up and sprung for a smartphone in the first place–or perhaps the  _only_  reason–was so that he could properly keep up daily correspondence with Newton. His ancient flip phone, with its tiny three-letter-a-number keyboard, simply wasn’t up to task when it came to matching Newton’s constant stream of texts. Nor were the international rates remotely affordable. He can send Newton pictures now, those funny emoticons Newton loves, text him over wifi, and, even better, they can video chat whenever either of them want.

Unfortunately, Newton appears to want to video chat  _right no,_ right in the middle of Hermann’s afternoon Calculus lecture, and Hermann’s made the grave mistake of leaving his ringer on and his phone buried in the very bottom of his tote bag with no way he can possibly subtly switch it off. He talks through the first two times, certain that Newton will recall the five hour time difference and the fact that Hermann has a  _job_ and stop any second now, but after three more times he admits defeat. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he tells his students, with forced calmness and gritted teeth, and then begins digging through his bag.

He finds his phone on ring number six and declines the video call, only to discover that Newton’s blown up his phone with dozens of text messages as well, all some variant of either begging Hermann to pick up his phone or telling him that it’s an  _emergency_!

Hermann immediately feels a pang of guilt for ignoring his friend for so long. “We’ll end early today,” he announces, scrolling down, and down, and down through Newton’s texts. “I’ve got a bit of an emergency, I’m afraid.”

There are murmurs of pleased surprise, and Hermann’s students begin  _quickly_ packing up their laptops and bags, but Hermann beats them all out the door. He answers Newton’s next video call on the first ring. “What is it?” he half-shouts at the screen, preparing himself for the worst. The video feed on Newton’s end finishes loading, and he’s face-to-face with Newton–

–at home, in bed.

“ _Hi_ ,” Newton says, sounding as if he has a bad cold.

“What’s the matter?” Hermann pushes, though he slows to a halt, half-out the front doors of the university building. “What’s the emergency?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Newton says, looking moderately surprised. “ _Right. I forgot I texted that. I’m just bored_.”

Hermann hangs up.

Newton rings again, and Hermann picks it up  _very_ begrudgingly. “I cancelled my lecture for you,” he announces. He does not tell Newton that he’d been halfway to purchasing a one-way flight to Boston, nor that the webpage is currently still open in his phone’s browser. 

“ _You did_?” Newton says, sounding incredibly pleased. “ _That’s so sweet. Thanks, Hermann_.”

“That wasn’t meant–” Hermann begins to hiss, furious, but a small group of his first-years scurry by him and he shuts his mouth. (He already unintentionally terrifies them enough. Best not to give them any more reason.) He tries again, mildly calmer. “I was under the impression you were in the hospital. Or dying. Or both.”

“ _I mean, technically_ ,” Newton says, “ _I’m dying of boredom. And I was in the hospital_.”

Hermann startles in surprise. “You were?” he says. He supposed it would explain Newton’s radio silence over the last few days.

“ _Tonsillitis, baby_ ,” Newton says, which would also explain why his voice sounds–like that. “ _I can’t eat jackshit. Or leave bed. It sucks_.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to–”

“ _Literally_  anything,” Newton says. “ _You could read me the phone book and it would be more exciting than this. Do you know how many episodes of House Hunters I’ve watched?_ ”

“You could change the channel,” Hermann suggests.

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newton whines.

It’s not even four in the afternoon. Hermann’s bus home isn’t due to arrive for at least another half hour. He sighs and finishes the walk to the bus stop bench, then sits down. “Oh, fine,” he says. “What would you like me to talk about?”

Newton beams at him and wriggles into a sitting position, and Hermann is struck by how strangely endearing he looks, with his baggy t-shirt and messy bedhead. (Damn Newton and his infuriating ability to distract and beguile Hermann at every turn.) “ _I don’t know_ ,” he says. “ _I kinda expected you to hang up._ ” Hermann feels another pang of guilt. “ _Uh, what’s the weather like there_?”

Hermann squints at the gloomy grey sky. “Overcast.” He recalls the report he heard over the bus radio that morning. “We’re meant to expect rain.”

“ _What’d you do today_?”

“I ate breakfast,” Hermann says. “I taught, but I left early, on account of an  _annoying_ colleague–”

“ _Jackass_ ,” Newton says affectionately. Hermann smiles. 

“You ought to get some sleep,” Hermann says, moderately softer. When Hermann had his tonsils removed when he was ten years old, he remembers doing nothing but drinking sugary tea, assembling small models in bed, and sleeping. Mostly sleeping. (He also remembers being wildly displeased with the amount of school he had to miss.) Besides, Newton does look quite exhausted.

“ _Will you keep talking to me if I do?_ ” Newton says. Hermann’s got twenty-five minutes to his bus. He can spare the time. He nods, and Newton looks pleased once more. “ _Talk about your latest research or something._ ”

Hermann snorts. “You must think  _so_  highly of my work if it puts you to sleep that quickly,” he says, and–to his surprise–embarrassment instantly clouds Newton’s features.

“’S not that,” he says, averting his eyes from the camera. “Your voice is…nice. I just like it.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, and hopes Newton cannot see his blush. “Er. Thank you, Newton.”

Newton says nothing else, so Hermann launches into a brief summary of his latest, and yet-to-be-published, research, research he’ll undoubtedly be sending off to Newton to peer-edit and peer-review in less than a weeks’ time. As he speaks, he watches Newton settle back down into bed, his eyes drift shut, his lips curl into a little smile, and by the time Hermann’s bus comes–by the time Hermann hangs up with an identical smile on his face–Newton’s sound asleep.

 _Feel better_ , Hermann texts him, and, after a moment’s consideration, adds a small heart emoticon.


	147. newt getting off on hermann ignoring him (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Do you have any updates for the verse where Newt gets off on Hermann ignoring him? Because that was excellent fun for everyone. Love your work, gorgeous :)

On regular, normal Saturday mornings, Newton will knock on Hermann’s door at precisely nine with orange juice for the both of them and, often, whatever pastry he found in the mess hell he felt Hermann would enjoy. Hermann will do a crossword puzzle (or, should the mood seize him, a sudoku puzzle) on his phone, while Newton uses his private shower. By the time Hermann’s finished the puzzle (and, often, the pastry), the hot water will have run out, and Newton will emerge in a small towel that he promptly drops on the floor in order to have sex with Hermann for the next several hours. Hermann’s quite fond of this routine. Especially the last bit.

Today begins as normal as their other Saturday mornings. Newton knocks on his door at nine. He carries orange juice (one for each) and a pastry (one for Hermann) and hands Hermann’s breakfast over. Hermann thanks Newton with a small kiss, then slides his glasses on and unlocks his phone to begin his usual puzzle.

This is when their routine shifts: Newton does not head for Hermann’s shower. He curls up in Hermann’s bed, instead, right under Hermann’s covers, and presses his face right against Hermann’s chest. At first, Hermann isn’t sure what to do. “I washed your towel,” he says to the small Newton-shaped lump in his quilt, in hopes that will inspire Newton, “and I bought you a new disposable razor.”

Newton’s hand creeps up Hermann’s t-shirt (a t-shirt borrowed off Newton some months back), and he pokes his head out from under the quilt. He’s smiling sheepishly. “I actually showered last night,” he says. “Communal showers. I spilled a bit of a sample on myself and smelled like literal shit, so I went right before bed.”

It must’ve been serious: Newton hates the communal showers, and Newton has never once cared about getting messy. “I see,” Hermann says, and he turns his attention back to his puzzle.

Newton drags his hand lower. He toys with the drawstrings of Hermann’s sweatpants (also borrowed from Newton some months back). “Uh. You almost done?”

“No,” Hermann says. He takes a bite of the pastry and completes another line of numbers.

Newton unties the drawstring and sticks his hand down Hermann’s sweatpants entirely. “Commando,” he sighs happily, feeling around. “God, Hermann, that’s so hot.”

“Mm,” Hermann says. He completes two more lines, then a box.

“Hermann,” Newton says. He’s breathing fast in the way that means he’s getting excited. Hermann can feel him exhale–hot–and inhale–hot–against the bare skin of his arm. “Can I touch you? Please? Hermann, please, please–”

Hermann looks at Newton over the rims of his glasses and considers. Hermann’s fond of their routine, but he’s also fond of Newton, and he’s  _especially_ fond of sex with Newton. He’s very much inclined to simply save his puzzle for later, or even tomorrow, and cut right to sex. On the other hand–when Hermann gives Newton an inch, Newton regularly takes a mile, and he’ll surely find a way to make Hermann regret being lenient very, very quickly.

Luckily, there’s a solution that benefits the both of them.

“If you’d like,” Hermann says, as disinterestedly as possible. He finishes the sudoku puzzle and starts another. Newton, meanwhile, lets out an enthusiastic moan, rips off the bedcovers, and yanks Hermann’s sweatpants down to his knees.

“Hermann,” Newton says, layering kiss after kiss on the outside of Hermann’s bare thighs, “baby, sweetheart, Hermann–” He tosses the sweatpants to the floor, and Hermann does his best to stifle his groan when Newton jerks his legs apart and starts mouthing at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. When Newton bites down and starts sucking, Hermann’s fingers shake so badly he taps the wrong number twice.

“How’s that?” Newton says, and drags his tongue over a fresh, stinging hickey. Then he drags his tongue a little higher.

Hermann counts to ten in his head. He fills in another number. “Hm?”

Newton makes a noise that’s halfway erotic, halfway frustrated, and he wriggles out from between Hermann’s thighs long enough to grope around in the pocket of his own sweatpants. Hermann wonders, briefly, what it is Newton’s up to before Newton is suddenly working a lubricant-slick finger into him and Hermann bites down on his lower lip to keep from crying out. “’S okay?” Newton pants, crooking his finger and stretching Hermann every-which-way. “Can I–”

“Really, Newton,” Hermann says, voice shaking near-imperceptibly, “it’s  _quite_ up to you. I’m somewhat preoccupied.” He moves on to the next puzzle, and he’s glad for the distraction, because Newton repeats that helpless noise and it’s almost enough to make Hermann crack and haul Newton up into his arms. (He’s teaching Newton an  _important_  lesson, he reminds himself, though he’s forgotten what that lesson is at this point.)

Newton works in another slick digit and fingers Hermann with a renewed vigor, twisting them around, stroking at his inner walls, rubbing deep and insistent. He bites more hickeys into Hermann’s thighs. He laps up Hermann’s precome, sucks messily and eagerly at him. When that doesn’t work (and Hermann commends himself for his stoicism, here), Newton snags an unused pillow from the head of the mattress, props it up under Hermann’s hips and pulls Hermann’s legs over his shoulders, and replaces his fingers–jammed up deep inside Hermann–with his quick, practiced tongue, instead.

Hermann starts another puzzle.

Newton’s tongue stills. Hermann lowers his phone and peers over his glasses once more. “Is something the matter, dear?” he says, voice shaking harder, sweat beading his brow. Newton glares at him, and Hermann reaches down and cups his stubble-rough cheek; the glare slides away, and Newton’s eyelids flicker. “I’m doing you a terriblykindfavor right now by allowing you to touch me,” Hermann says, quietly, calmly, and he rubs his thumb over Newton’s jaw. “You ought to be grateful. Are you grateful, Newton?”

Newton whimpers and nods, then starts driving his tongue into Hermann twice as fast. “Good, Newton,” Hermann breathes, sliding his hand up to pet at Newton’s hair instead and rolling his hips down to meet him, “yes, darling, yes–”

When Hermann comes, Newton thrusts his hand down into his boxers and brings himself off with little gasping  _ah, ah, ah_ s, clumsy and desperate and over with in a matter of seconds. He pillows his head on Hermann’s thigh when he’s done, and Hermann sets his phone aside and allows himself–and Newton–the indulgence of continuing to pet Newton’s hair. “Wow, Hermann,” Newton squeaks, looking up at him dazed and flushed red. “That was  _really_ hot.”

“Thank you,” Hermann says, and smiles. He’s very, very fond of Newton. “I wasn’t quite sure if it was working.”

“Dude,” Newton says, “it fucking worked.” He sits up–to Hermann’s disappointment, because Newton is quite warm and comfortable a bed partner–and starts wriggling out of his damp, and likely sticky (and, even more likely, ruined), sweatpants. “I might actually take a shower now, though. I’m all–gross.”

Hermann rolls his shoulders to work out the kinks in his back, then slips out of Newton’s t-shirt. “I’ll join you,” he says, to Newton’s obvious pleased surprise.

They touch each other to their hearts’ content under the warm spray of Hermann’s shower.


	148. precursor newt seducing hermann (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Because I am in a mood for horrible things, what do you think of Hermann getting to close to uncovering the truth so Precursor possessed Newt seduces him into bed as a distraction? Bonus if the Precursors taunt Hermann about it later.

There’s something off about Newton.

Newton’s always been vain. He always did his hair up with too much product and wore jeans a bit too tight and stressed and fretted over even the smallest wrinkle, but he never wore suits like this before, never kept himself so perfectly shaven, never kept his waist so trim. He’s lost his soft edges, the glasses that used to frame his face so nicely. He’s colder, too—colder to strangers, colder to  _Hermann_. They fought in the past, of course, argued incessantly, took petty jabs at each other’s disciplines, but Newton never outright refused to discuss research with Hermann before.

Hermann’s research won’t matter, Newton says, his drones will make this obsolete, Hermann’s wasting his time, Hermann shouldn’t bother.

It’s been a decade, Hermann knows, people change in a decade, Hermann himself has changed in a decade (Hermann’s a little lonelier, a little sadder, a little more spontaneous, a little messier), but there’s something off. Something wrong. Hermann can’t quite place it. Hermann—

“You should come ‘round for dinner,” Newton says. His demeanor has changed, so subtly—all business before, but now, he’s standing close, eyelids half-mast, lips curled into a lazy smile. “We could catch up. Talk about that experiment of yours. Play with your—” Newton casts a little glance at the door, then takes a step forward, drags a finger down Hermann’s chest, “— _test tubes_.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, mouth hanging open, and something is very wrong, but it’s been so long since he’s made love to Newton, so long since he’s been the subject of Newton’s raw desire, some ten long, long years spent without Newton’s kisses and Newton’s touch. “Ah. I.”

Newton drags his finger lower, skimming over the fastening Hermann’s trousers, and Hermann’s knees threaten to buckle. “Mm?”

“Dinner,” Hermann stammers. “Dinner would be lovely, Newton.”

“Tomorrow night,” Newton says, snapping his hand away, and he’s as brisk and businesslike as he was before. “I’ll have my people pick you up when you’re done with—” He waves his hand at the mess of Hermann’s lab and wrinkles his nose. “This. Yeah?”

“Alright, Newton,” Hermann says, heart pounding. “Thank you.” He nearly cringes at the words before they leave his mouth—how weak, how pathetic Newton must see him, grovelling like a desperate ex-lover for the slightest bit of attention. (Is he an ex-lover?)

“And, uh, wear something  _nice_ ,” Newton says, looking Hermann up and down skeptically. Hermann’s hands go to his collar immediately, smoothing over it, self-conscious; he quite likes this shirt. He thought Newton would’ve liked it, which is why he wore it today in the first place. Newton doesn’t notice, just slips his sunglasses back on. He’s gone with a little wave and without a second glance.

* * *

Newton’s  _people_  pick Hermann up exactly as Newton promised the following night. He sends a big, fancy car, far more extravagant than anything either of them have owned in their entire lives, with a minibar in the back. The driver tells Hermann Dr. Geiszler insists Hermann make himself comfortable, have as many drinks as he’d like. “Why couldn’t Dr. Geiszler be here, then?” Hermann says, politely refusing the man’s attempts to take his suit coat for him.

The driver doesn’t answer.

He gets shown to the front of Newton’s condo complex, gets instructed to the right room, and then he’s riding the elevator up and standing in front of Newton’s door. He almost can’t bring himself to knock. “It’s unlocked,” Newton calls from inside as Hermann raises his hand, almost like he can sense Hermann. Perhaps some strings of their neural link remain, frayed and weakened by time though they may be. “Come on in.”

Hermann pushes open the door. Newton’s condo is far too extravagant, far too elegant for Hermann’s and Newton’s tastes, marble countertops and windows the size of walls, but that’s not what makes Hermann nearly stumble, grip his cane hard, makes him say “Newton?” in surprise.

There’s candles lit on what’s presumably the dining table, the counters, the coffee table, and Newton’s leaning against the table with a glass of wine and in a  _very_  sheer robe. It’s more like lingerie than anything. There’s absolutely nothing beneath it. Hermann snaps his eyes up, and Newton sets his glass down. “Hermann,” he says, and swoops in, throws his arms over Hermann’s shoulders. He’s so warm, so close, and it’s so much after nothing for so long, and Hermann very nearly gasps when Newton presses their lips together in a kiss.

“Newton,” Hermann repeats, feeling vaguely foolish, because he’d been hoping the night would go like this but didn’t by any means expect it, “what are you—that is—?”

Newton flutters his eyelashes prettily. “I wanted to dress up for you,” he says, and wraps his fingers around Hermann’s neat tie.

“ _I_  wanted to talk about my research,” Hermann says weakly. “We—”

Newton rubs his hips against Hermann’s, bare skin on fabric. Newton’s already hard, the head of his prick flushed red. (This isn’t right, Hermann thinks, something isn’t right with Newton, but oh, Newton is so handsome, so lovely, only more so with age, with the grey at his temples and the little lines at the corners of his eyes that Hermann wants nothing more than to kiss over and over. Hermann should’ve been there to watch him grow old.) “Research?” Newton says. He gives an exaggerated pout. Purposefully silly. It’s more like the Newton Hermann remembers. “That’s boring, man, come on.”

“I suppose—ah.” Newton leans back in and runs his tongue along Hermann’s lower lip, rubs his prick at the front of Hermann’s trousers again, and Hermann’s brain feels fuzzy.

“Come sit,” Newton says in his ear, and he threads the fingers of his right hand with Hermann’s left and tugs him forward. Hermann lets Newton pull him to the sofa and sit him down, lets him set his cane aside delicately, and then Newton settles himself down atop Hermann’s lap. “Hermann,” he sighs, nosing at Hermann’s neck, “I missed you so much, honey. I’ve been so lonely without you.” He picks up one of Hermann’s hands and slides it across his chest, just over one of his nipples, and rubs his prick against the front of Hermann’s nice dress shirt. He lowers his voice. “Do you still remember how I like to be touched?”

Of course Hermann remembers. He remembers how to draw sighs from Newton, gasps of pleasure, how to take him apart until he’s trembling in Hermann’s arms and breathing out pledges of love. He wonders if Newton remembers how to do the same for him. Hermann brushes his thumb over the nipple presented so readily in front of him and feels Newton shiver. “Newt,” he croaks (he came to talk about business, about his research), “I really could use your input on my work. Ah.” Newton worries Hermann’s earlobe between his teeth. “You see. Newton. Ah. It’s not quite finished, you see—”

“Mm-hmm?” Newton hums, working open Hermann’s top few buttons. Hermann can’t help but rub his thumb over the same nipple once more and elicit another little shiver of pleasure.

“The equation,” Hermann says, as Newton kisses his throat and Hermann strains in his trousers, “I’m missing—” Newton takes his other hand, pushes it under the fabric of the little sheer robe and down his lower back, down to the curve of his ass, and Hermann lets out a deep groan. “Oh, Newton…”

“C’mon,” Newton says, and bites at his earlobe again. “We can talk after.” He’s grinning. Hermann’s too entranced by him to do anything but nod.

 

Newton takes him to bed, then, to his ridiculous, absurd, oversized bed, pushes Hermann down and rides him fast, doesn’t even bother to take Hermann’s shirt off fully and leaves Hermann’s trousers bunched around his knees, cries and begs and tells Hermann how much he missed him, how much he’s wanted him for so long.

(“Why didn’t you  _call_ ,” Hermann snarls, gripping Newton’s thighs hard enough to leave red half-moons against his inked skin, “why didn’t you email, or text, or—”)

(It’s the best orgasm Hermann’s had in ten years.)

 

“Stay the night,” Newton says later, propped up on his elbow and idly tracing across Hermann’s jaw with his finger. “I’ll make everything up to you, starting tomorrow.”

There’s a curtain covering something in the corner of Newton’s bedroom, something big, something Hermann hadn’t noticed in his previous haze of lust, and Hermann can’t stop staring. He doesn’t like it. “Newton, love,” Hermann begins.

“I’ll actually make dinner,” Newton continues, not noticing Hermann’s discomfort. Perhaps ignoring it. He nips at Hermann’s throat. “Whatever you want. Or we could go out somewhere fancy. There’s a place—”

“What is that?” Hermann points at the curtain.

Newton steals a little kiss. “Forget about that rocket fuel,” he says, lips brushing against Hermann’s. “I don’t want you hurting yourself. Or worse. I mean, what would I do without you, Hermann?”

Hermann tears his eyes away from the curtain, his chest clenching painfully. Ten years of radio silence from Newton. “You seem to be faring  _pretty well_  without me,” he spits out, bitter.

Newton straddles Hermann’s waist again, pressing kisses to his neck once more. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve just been so busy, Hermann, and stressed, it wasn’t on purpose, I’d never blow you off like that on  _purpose_.” He rubs their noses together. “I love you.”

Hermann wraps his arms around Newton, holding him in place. Newton  _has_  been busy, he supposes, and stressed, which would explain why he’s been so odd, so distant. He still makes love the same—vocal, enthusiastic, eager to please Hermann and be pleased in return—still kisses the same, still touches Hermann the same. He’s still the man Hermann loves. “I know,” Hermann sighs. He kisses the top of Newton’s head. He doesn’t think he’ll ever quite be able to forgive Newton for all those years, but he’s certainly willing to start something new.

“Forget about the fuel?” Newton says.

Hermann really could hurt himself with ill-advised experiments with kaiju blood. (Besides: Newton’s concern is proof Newton still cares about his well-being.) “Alright, Newton,” Hermann says, unable to help his smile, and Newton steals another little kiss.

“Stay the night,” Newton insists once more. “I’ll cook breakfast.”

Newton’s bed is comfortable. Newton is even more comfortable. Hermann nods.

It’s good to have Newton back.


	149. MORE touch starved hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I loved the touch starved stuff! Did you ever read that imagine your otp thing about person a realising person b usually doesn't let people touch them but let's person a? Could you do a newmann version?

It’s nothing that’s bothering Newt, per say–nothing that’s getting on his nerves, pissing him off, nor is it any cause for major alarm. It’s just a sort of passing observation. The kind of thing born of confusion, or just plain curiosity. It wouldn’t even matter if it was anyone else. (But it’s Hermann, so it does. It’s Hermann, so it eats away at Newt until he can’t stand it.)

Newt notices it first in the mess hall, when someone bumps into Hermann by accident in the line to get dinner. Again when Hermann signs for an order of lab equipment and the delivery guy (cheery, friendly, the sort Newt knows Hermann hates) claps Hermann on the back. When they go to the annual dome-wide Valentine’s Day party and a handful of different people (cheery, friendly, and  _heavily_ intoxicated) try to hug Hermann in greeting. Every time, Hermann visibly recoils, his whole body stiffening, his face twisting in discomfort; every time, he detracts himself from the situation as quickly as possible with as little excuses as possible.

But he doesn’t do that to Newt.

Hermann’s always let Newt touch him. He’s always let Newt take his arm as they walk down the hallway, or brush their hands together as he hands Hermann things (papers, or mugs, or his cane), even hug him, occasionally, when Newt’s excited or Newt decides that Hermann looks upset. He’s never recoiled from Newt. He’s never pushed Newt away. If Newt had to guess, he might even say Hermann  _likes_ it when Newt touches him: he smiles, he leans on Newt, he touches Newt  _back._

Newt’s not one to run around making assumptions on unproved or unverified data, though, so a week after the Valentine’s party (a week after Hermann avoided anyone who as much as tried to give him a friendly handshake but then spent the night tipsy and half-lounging over Newt), as Hermann types up an email on his computer, Newt creeps up behind him and carefully lays his hand on Hermann’s shoulder.

Hermann does not recoil, nor does he stiffen, nor does he shove Newt off. The opposite, actually. He  _relaxes_. His posture sags a little, and he leans into the touch. “Is there something you need, Newton?” he says, peering up at Newt over those dumb glasses that make his eyes giant and round, like he’s a particularly stuffy owl.

 _No_ , Newt means to say,  _carry on, dude_ , but what comes out instead is “Why don’t you let anyone touch you?”

Hermann’s eyes flick to Newt’s hand. Newt doesn’t pull it away. “I suppose I just don’t like being touched, is all,” Hermann says with a small half-shrug, and he slides his glasses off his nose. “I never have.”

“You let me touch you,” Newt says.

Hermann feigns surprise. “Do I?” he says.

“I’m literally touching you right now.” Newt squeezes Hermann’s shoulder.

“I suppose you are,” Hermann says. He slides his glasses back on. “Are you nearly done? This email is rather important. I’d like to send it.”

“You let me hug you,” Newt says, because he is  _not_ nearly done. “And hold your hand. You don’t let anyone else but me. I just wanna know why.”

Hermann’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “I think the answer is fairly obvious, Newton,” he says, and then he continues typing.

Newt does pull his hand away then. “What’s  _that_  mean?”

Hermann doesn’t answer.

Later–when it’s their usual time to clock out, when Hermann descends his ladder, sets his chalk on the ledge, shrugs on his blazer–Newt throws down his apron and gloves and accosts Hermann before he can leave the lab. “How is it obvious?” he demands, hands on his hips.

Hermann’s smile is infuriating, fucking smug as hell. “There’s no need to be angry,” he says, and–to Newt’s abject shock–cups the side of Newt’s face and kisses him. “As you can see,” he murmurs, “I  _far_ from mind when you touch me.”

He pats Newt’s cheek and breezes past him.

“Uh,” Newt squeaks, blinking dumbly, and then, once he recovers his senses, tears off after Hermann down the hall. “Dude! Wait!”

Newt’s not one to run around making assumptions on unproved or unverified data; this data, he decides (and he thinks Hermann will be more than willing to comply), requires several more tests.


	150. valentine's day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ms-julius asked:  
> Prompt idea for whenever you have the time: Taking place before they got together, there is a valentine's day celebrations in Shatterdome. Everyone is getting cards and gifts, Newton included. Everyone except Hermann (who is so rarely seen outside of labs that everyone kinda forgot about him). Well Newton notices, and decides to make things right.

“ _Don’t_  assume I’m upset about this,” Hermann says, “because I’m not. Not even the slightest bit.”

Newton is holding a stack of Valentines taller than half his torso, ranging everywhere from the glittery red-and-pink homemade construction paper variety, to large heart-shaped boxes of chocolate with gift tags, to a single potted rosebush that looks in desperate need of watering. His face pokes out over the top; Hermann can only just make out his glasses. “Not a single one?” Newton says. The stack wobbles ominously. 

“No,” Hermann says. “Really, Newton. I don’t mind.”

Newton takes a few staggering steps over to his desk and deposits the pile there, plant included. He wipes his hands (coated in a thin veneer of glitter) on his black corduroys. “Hermann,” he says. Hermann notices, for the first time that day, that Newton has swapped out his usual black shoe string of a tie for a pink one dotted with small red hearts. All in keeping with the season, he supposes, though he’ll frankly never grow accustomed to Newton’s ever-changing and ever-expanding collection of holiday ties. Newton has at least six light-up Halloween ones alone. “Are you  _totally sure_  you didn’t get–?”

“I wouldn’t have cared even if I did,” Hermann interrupts, a bit snippier than he intended. “Valentine’s Day means absolutely nothing to me, Newton. It  _never_  has.” He punctuates the sentiment with a violent slash at his board with his chalk, though it’s dampened, somewhat, by the very…. _pinkness_ of it. Newton swapped out all of his chalk for something more seasonably appropriate as well, and even then most thorough search of the lab turned up not even the tiniest stub of his usual white.

“It’s a fun holiday!” Newton says. “All about  _love_ , and showing people you care for them–and, you know, obviously commercialized as shit, but… You want some of my candy?”

Hermann shakes his head.

Newton heaves a sigh, but he, thankfully, doesn’t pester Hermann about it anymore.

In truth, Hermann really  _doesn’t_ care he didn’t get any Valentines today. Not for any of the misanthropic, self-loathing, Valentine’s-Day-is-a-sham reasons that Newtonlikely assumes of him, but for the pure and simple fact that there’s no one Hermann would like to receive a Valentine from. Nor is there anyone he expected one from in the first place. Hermann is not exactly popular around the Shatterdome. Neither is Newton, for that matter, despite his stack of cards and the like; Newton, in his endless quest for attention and affection, is merely very fond of doling out gifts and typically gets something small and perfunctory in return. (Though the rosebush is a surprise. Hermann suspects it came from the young man who works the late dinner shift in the mess hall; he’s always giving Newton extra of whatever he’d like, always with a little wink.)

Well. Perhaps this isn’t the whole entire truth.

Hermann does not think he would’ve minded a valentine from Newton. He would’ve  _liked_ one, actually. It isn’t entirely unfounded a wish. He and Newton are certainly…something, these days, beyond lab partners, beyond friends (not that Hermann has considered them friends in a very, very long time), more exclusive than simple  _friends with benefits_. Sometimes Newton spends the night in Hermann’s bed. Sometimes Hermann spends the night in Newton’s. Sometimes it’s preceded by kissing, sometimes by something  _more_ than kissing, oftentimes by nothing at all. 

(Hermann thinks that should’ve, at least, earned him a card.)

He mostly forgets about his ( _very_  minor) disappointment by the time dinner rolls around and he and Newton take their usual seats at the table in the back corner, but–watching Newton tear through two newly acquired boxes of chocolate–he remembers it soon enough. “Seriously,” Newton says, brandishing the box, “just  _have some_ , Hermann.”

Hermann remains stony-faced. “I don’t want any,” he says, and he stabs at the noodles on his plate with his fork.

Later, after dinner, after they wrap up the day’s work, Newton trails Hermann back to his bunk and tries to push his way inside the moment Hermann unlocks his door. Hermann stills him by pressing the end of his cane to his shin. “Newton. What are you doing?”

Newton’s smile flickers. He looks confused. “Can I not come in?”

“Not tonight, I think. I’m…tired,” Hermann lies, in lieu of a better excuse. He’s aware  _I’m upset with you because you didn’t get me a purely symbolic piece of paper in the shape of a heart_ would sound incredibly pathetic.

“But it’s  _Valentine’s Day_.”

“And it will no longer be Valentine’s Day,” Hermann says, “in–” He looks at his watch: quarter past eight. “–four hours. Do get out of my way, Newton.”

Newton does not get out of his way. He’s lost his smile entirely. “What’s wrong?” he says. “Are you seriously that pissed that no one got you–”

“I don’t care about the  _bloody_ valentines, Newton,” Hermann finally snaps. “I care–” He flushes, shuts his mouth, then counts to ten in his head. “I care,” he says, a great deal calmer, “that you didn’t get me one. As foolish, presumptuous, and  _juvenile_ as it sounds, I would’ve appreciated the gesture.”

Newton stares at him for a few seconds. Then, to Hermann’s shock, he laughs. “Dude,” he says, “I totally got you a valentine. Didn’t you read my card?”

“Card?” Hermann repeats, faintly.

“I taped it to the back of the box of pink chalk,” Newton says. “It was  _kinda_ hard to miss.”

Hermann shakes his head slowly. In the heat of the moment–in his irritation, his envy, his plain and simple  _hurt feelings_ –he’d done nothing more than snag a single piece in a blind rage and take everything out on his chalkboard. He did not look at the back of the box. “Er. No. I didn’t read it.”

“It was a very important card,” Newton says, dropping his voice, inching forward, and settling his hands at Hermann’s waist, “explaining that you would get your  _extra_ special valentine, from me, tonight.” He smiles and rubs his thumbs at the curve of Hermann’s hipbones; Hermann’s heart thuds pathetically. “You really didn’t read it?” He looks disappointed. “I put glitter and stickers on it and everything.”

“I didn’t see it,” Hermann confesses, and then says, “Er. Can I still–that is, are you still going to give me the other…?”

Newton nods. “Of course,” he says. “Here.” Then he stretches up on his tiptoes, wraps his arms around Hermann’s neck, and kisses him. “I love you,” he says against Hermann’s lips. “Like, I’m in full-on, romantic, sappy, love with you.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, and he smiles, too, wider than he ever thought possible. Newton’s never said that to him before. “I love you too, Newton.”

They kiss a little more.

“I also put flower petals all over your bed,” Newton continues once they part, the tips of their noses bumping together. “And your floor. And your bathtub. I got a little excited.”

Hermann furrows his brow. “When on earth did you have the time to do that?”

“I maybe broke into your room during lunch,” Newton says. “But in a  _romantic_  way.”


	151. newt/owen, owen/newt/hermann (newmann adjacent!) (hard nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hi! I know it must be an old prompt fill, but would you ever consider writing a follow-up on your newt/owen fill? If you felt like revisiting it, of course. Jealousy/pining with a happy ending is my cryptonite and I love your writing!

Newt’s always been pretty decent at giving blowjobs (everyone always tells him he’s got a big mouth, you know, gotta use it for something), and over time he’s actually started to really dig it. As of late, he’s started to really dig giving Owen blowjobs especially–he’s got a nice dick that Newt can only just fit his mouth around all the way, and he massages Newt’s scalp and tugs on his hair the whole time and calls Newt filthy things, and sometimes, nice things. It’s a great time for everyone involved, Newt figures.

Hermann left the lab some time ago to shower and go to bed–early for him, on a work night, but he’s been doing that a  _lot_ lately since Dr. Harper joined up with them–and the second the door shut behind him, Owen’s hand went to Newt’s ass.

“We’re not done with the dissection yet,” Newt protested weakly, but Owen squeezed his ass and licked a line up his neck and Newt’s dick jerked to life and, well. One thing led to another, and now they’re here, Owen pressed against Hermann’s chalkboard with his jeans and boxers pulled down to his thighs and his dick down Newt’s throat. “Pretty thing,” he moans, petting Newt’s hair, and Newt sucks eagerly and digs his nails into Owen’s hips before pulling off with a  _pop_.

“Call me names,” Newt begs, voice raspy, before he sucks Owen into his mouth once more; Owen fucks his hips forwards, and Newt nearly chokes.

(No one’s ever called Newt dirty stuff in bed before, and it’s something he found out he’s into totally by accident. It was a week or so ago, in Newt’s bunk, and he and Owen had been fucking, like they usually do the second the work day ends, and Owen had been insinuating for not-the-first-time that he wouldn’t mind sharing Newt with Hermann. Far from mind it, actually. Narcissist.

“You’re pretty dead set on this, huh?” Newt panted out as he ground himself down. Owen was clinging to him so tight Newt could barely move, lips dragging messy down Newt’s neck, and Newt almost didn’t hear his grunt of an answer.

“Why not?” Owen began kneading at his ass, spreading him just a bit wider, and Newt sunk down and whined and tossed his head back. “You– _oh–_ you clearly want to shag him, too.”

“I’ve never–” Newt stammered. “Uh–”

Owen’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Then, he was leering again, rolling into Newt with a deliberate languidness that made Newt want to scream. He snagged a handful of Newt’s hair and wrenched his head forward to hiss in his ear. “A cockslut like you–” Newt’s eyes widened “–never having had more than one man at a time? I don’t believe it.”

“Call me that again,” Newt whimpered. “Oh, fuck.”

“You’re a filthy cockslut,” Owen repeated, amused, half-laughing, and he tightened his grip in Newt’s hair and tugged harder. “A filthy, greedy–”

“I am,” Newt nearly shouted, writhing desperately, “oh, fuck, I am, I  _am_ –” He came, untouched, between their bodies, and Owen laughed disbelievingly and…that was that.)

“You’re a little slut,” he growls now, thrusting hard into Newt’s mouth, and Newt moans helplessly and palms himself through his jeans. “You’re a dirty little cockslut, Newt, and I’m going to come all over your pretty–”

There’s a tiny exclamation of surprise from behind them. Newt wonders–for a moment–who’s caught them and if they should stop, but Owen holds Newt’s head in place by his hair and continues fucking his face as if nothing’s wrong, so Newt lets him. Probably the janitor. Newt owes the guy big time at this point–he’ll get him a nice Christmas present when December rolls around. “Dr. Gottlieb,” Owen greets, absurdly casual, and Newt yanks himself off Owen’s dick, coughing, cheeks reddening in embarrassment, and he turns around.

“Hermann?!” he squeaks, and sure enough, there’s Hermann, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, frozen in the doorway of the lab. “Shit, sorry–I didn’t–I thought you were–”

Owen is infuriatingly blasé about it all. Bastard probably planned it. “Ah, come on,” Owen says, shooting Hermann a little wink. “He was enjoying the show. Been lurking there for nearly five minutes.”

“I was  _not_!” Hermann exclaims, but his eyes are fixed on where Newt’s hand is still wrapped around the base of Owen’s dick, on Newt’s lips (slicked with precome and saliva). “I simply–I forgot–”

Owen’s fingers are still wound tightly in Newt’s hair, and he tugs on him until Newt, against his better judgment, takes him into his mouth once more. Maybe not entirely against his better judgement. The thought of having someone watch is  _kinda_  exciting. The thought of having Hermann watch is–well. That’s very, very exciting, more exciting than Newt cares to admit. Newt sucks and hallows his cheeks easily, moaning again, and Owen sighs. “Isn’t he a pretty thing?” he says, kneading at Newt’s scalp the way Newt likes. “C’mere.”

Newt expects Hermann to turn on his heels. Go back to bed. Probably even ignore him for the rest of the week, if not the month, if not  _forever_. He doesn’t expect the door clicking shut, the clack of Hermann’s cane on the lab floor moving towards them. Newt doesn’t stop working his throat as he looks up; Hermann is above him now, too, blushing terribly, his free hand fumbling with the buckle of his very tented slacks, and Newt’s arousal spikes by about two-hundred percent and he pulls off Owen with spit trailing to his lips. “Holy  _shit_ , Hermann,” he says, at a loss for anything else to say.

“Newton,” Hermann stammers, stilling his hand, “is this–ah–”

Newt ignores Owen in favor of throwing all caution into the wind and pressing himself to the front of Hermann’s slacks and mouthing at him, and Hermann chokes out a gasp. “ _Newton_ ,” he says, nearly dropping his cane as he throws out his right hand to grip the ledge of the chalkboard, “oh–”

Newt pulls Hermann’s dick–flushed red and leaking precome–out, then presses a single kiss to the tip. “Both of you,” Newt says, breathily, and then licks teasingly over the head (barely believing it). “I want both of you to–”

Owen catches on first and inches over, nudges his dick against Newt’s cheek, and Newt curls his other hand around it and licks off precome and remnants of his own saliva. He hears Hermann emit another odd, strangled noise, and Newt grins, leans back over to Hermann’s dick and kisses that again instead. He starts stroking them both in unison. “Is this good?” he says, widening his eyes innocently. He nuzzles at the tip of Hermann’s dick and darts his tongue out against the slit.

Owen hisses out a curse; Hermann’s legs start to tremble. His knuckles have gone white around the chalkboard ledge. Newt’s chest swells with pride.  _He’s_  doing that to them.

It’s hard building a rhythm, at first, hard to lavish attention and kisses and teasing licks equally on both of them, but Newt manages after five minutes or so. He jerks them off slowly, evenly, switching between mouthing hot and messy at Owen’s (who likes it sloppy) and sucking on Hermann’s (who makes the sexiest little grunts every time Newt so much as breathes on him; Newt files away the knowledge that Hermann is  _sensitive_ for future use).

“Newton–” Hermann is panting, and Newt locks eyes with him as he rolls his tongue over Owen and Hermann’s mouth drops open, “oh–”

“You can do better than that,” Owen says, voice strained, and he pets at Newt’s hair. Newt takes the bait: he takes the heads of both Hermann and Owen’s dicks into his mouth and  _sucks_. Hermann cries out, guttural and wordless, and Newt moans happily and works his tongue over them as best as he can. He feels drool run down his chin; he knows he probably looks filthy, and  _ridiculous_ , but he doesn’t care.

Hermann’s hips jerk forward so hard Newt nearly gags again, and Newt pulls off quickly. He doesn’t want Hermann to come yet. He wants– “Sorry,” Hermann stutters, flustered, his chest heaving wildly, “oh, Newton, I’m sorry–I–”

Newt settles back on his heels (his knees have begun to ache, pressed to the cold tile floor for so long) and starts jerking them both off faster. “On my face,” he moans, “please.” He parts his lips, sticks his tongue out, and Owen–already so worked up from being teased for so long–falls apart first, gasps sharply as he comes. It hits Newt’s tongue, his nose, his left cheek in spurts. Hermann’s eyes are so wide it’s almost comical, and his orgasm takes both him and Newt by surprise, hitting Newt’s tongue–like Owen–but the rest hitting Newt’s chin and neck.

Newt swallows, lets them both slip from his fingers so he can start furiously rubbing at himself instead. “Holy shit,” Newt whines, feeling so, so dirty, and he squeezes himself clumsily, “holy shit, oh–”

Owen–breathing heavily–hoists Newt to his feet by the front of his button-up and slams him against the chalkboard, shoves his tongue into Newt’s mouth and bites at his bottom lip, and Newt squeaks in surprise. Owen swallows the noise down and works open Newt’s jeans to start jerking him off. Newt can see Hermann–dazed, spent, clinging to the chalkboard ledge–watching them. “C’mon, Gottlieb,” Owen murmurs, grabbing at Hermann’s hand and dragging it down Newt’s pants, too, and Newt’s breath hitches when he feels Hermann curl his fingers around him hesitantly.

“Hermann,” Newt whimpers, and Hermann grows more confident, matches Owen’s sharp, rough strokes. “Oh–”

Owen starts kissing down his throat and digs his teeth into the joint of Newt’s neck and shoulder, where Newt’s fucked-up collar exposes his skin. It’s like electricity is coursing through Newt’s body; everything is hot, so hot, and he’s aware he’s begging loudly, shrilly, for something, anything. Hermann leans in and kisses him hard just as Owen starts sucking a bruise into Newt’s skin and Newt cries out, spills over Hermann’s and Owen’s hands.

They’re both sweet and attentive, afterwards. Hermann–who had been so shy before–presses sweet, chaste kisses to Newt’s jaw and lips, murmuring out Newt’s name, and Owen just pets at Newt’s hair and kisses behind his ear. It’s nice.

“Great work, team,” Newt says finally, voice wrecked. “Gotta do that again some time.”


	152. touch starved NEWT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Touch-starved Newton prompt: Unlike Hermann, whose own psych is the main reason for the lack of physical clossness, Newton's reason is the lack of time: nobody in Shatterdome has time to cuddle as much as he wants to. So he goes around giving people quick hugs in order to get by. Until he realises that Hermann is just as (if not more) starved than he is. Then he relishes on the possibility to have Hermann to hug/kiss anytime he wants.

Newt’s well aware he’s got a bit of a bad habit of being–well– _clingy_ , when it comes to his personal relationships. In the literal and metaphorical sense. People don’t tend to like Newt very easily, so when they do, he has a hard time letting go. He trailed his favorite professors around like a tiny shadow in his undergraduate days when they would offer him even the smallest compliment or the smallest piece of positive reinforcement–a  _good job, Newt!,_ an instruction to the rest of the class to follow his example; he held his first boyfriend’s hand in public every chance he got (which he thinks, maybe, is the reason why the guy ended it after a month); he greets everyone with hugs, holds handshakes for longer than necessary, always insists his one-night-stands (which, in all honestly, are few in number) actually stay the full night so he can properly cuddle.

Probably due to some deep-rooted desire for constant validation. Not necessarily for approval (he’ll leave that to Hermann and his  _saluting_ ), but at least for…affection, maybe. Reassurance that people like him. Newt’s a lonely guy. Being an only child thrust into the world of academia (where everyone was much, much older than him) before he even started puberty did a real number on his interpersonal abilities.

The main problem, really, is that no one has the time to give Newt the affection he desperately, desperately craves these days, what with working to stop the impending doom of the world. And it’s a good excuse, obviously, Newt knows fighting the good fight 24/7 outweighs giving the resident biologist a nice pat on the back every now and then, but still. He wouldn’t mind it.

To his abject surprise, it’s  _Hermann_ that ends up being the one to give it to him. Hermann, buttoned-up, closed-off, high-strung Hermann, Hermann, who looks like he’s never been hugged in his entire life, Hermann, who probably  _actually_ hasn’tbeen hugged in his entire life, Hermann, who does not flinch away when Newt finally breaks and swings an arm around his shoulders one day (desperate for even a second of human contact), but rather melts against him and sighs happily. Interesting, Newt thinks, very, very interesting.

Hermann responds positively to all forms of touch, which Newt learns as he slowly graduates from category to category. Arm around Hermann’s shoulder, arm around Hermann’s waist, brief hugs,  _long_ hugs, hand on Hermann’s knee (very subtly, of course), hand brushing back Hermann’s hair and lingering over the soft, lightly freckled skin of his neck. Kissing Hermann in Hermann’s bed in Hermann’s room, a concept Hermann–brilliant research partner that he is–is the one to propose for testing.

“Keep your hand there,” Hermann says against Newt’s lips, dragging Newt’s hand back to the small of his back after Newt loosens his grip somewhat. “And keep your other–” He drags Newt’s other hand to the side of his face, and Newt, unasked, cups his cheek. He feels Hermann smile, and then he feels Hermann wind his arms around Newt’s waist and nudge him forward. Hermann falls back on the bed easily; Newt follows just as easily.

“This is nice,” Newt breathes after a more more seconds of kissing. Hermann laughs, and Newt rectifies, “This is  _awesome._ ”

“Mm,” Hermann says. He presses his face to the crook of Newt’s neck. Not to kiss or bite at him, as Newt expected (and maybe hoped, a little), but merely to breathe him in deeply. Newt’s suddenly grateful he didn’t put off his shower for another day like he considered that morning. “Newton,” Hermann murmurs.

“Yeah?” Newt says.

Hermann blinks up at him with soft eyes. “Stay the night.”

“Sure,” Newt says, and smiles dopily. “Yeah, okay.”

Newt stays the night. They don’t do anything more than kiss and touch each other gently (which is  _more_ than enough for Newt, now, doing anything else with  _Hermann_ so quickly would probably overwhelm him), and they fall asleep curled up in each other’s arms. They’re in almost the exact same position when Newt wakes up the next morning, though Hermann’s managed to drape himself across Newt’s chest in the night. Newt stares at him–at his bedhead, his fluttering eyelashes, his half-open mouth, the red line across his cheek from the fabric of Newt’s shirt–until Hermann wakes up too, aware that it’s probablycreepy but not really caring.

Hermann kisses him good morning, not even attempting get off of him. “Thank you for indulging me,” he says. His voice is thick with sleep. It’s really, really cute. “Sometimes–well.” He looks down. “I appreciate you staying, is all, Newton.”

It clicks into place for Newt, then, why Hermann wasn’t thrown off by his clinginess, why Hermann was pretty clingy in  _return_ : Hermann needs touch just as badly as Newt does. How convenient. How…mutually beneficial. “Listen,” Newt says, tracing little shapes over Hermann’s shoulderblades with his fingertips. “I need it too, dude. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, and he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.


	153. neighbors AU (aka newt in tiny shorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kaijuonmain asked:  
> MARIA give us the newt stretching in booty shorts in front of his hot neighbor!!!
> 
> Anonymous said: SUGGESTIVE STRETCHING NEWT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD
> 
> Anonymous said: If you have time/inspiration can you please write a fic where newt and Herm are neighbours and newt keeps going outside to do yoga or something in workout clothes that are way too small whenever herms is out there?

The flat next to Hermann’s has been vacant for as long as he can remember. For a good reason, Hermann supposes; not many people fancy living at the top floor of a many-leveled building in the very back corner, even if the elevators here work fairly smoothly. Hermann himself would’ve avoided it if he had any other choice–he can walk up the staircase just fine during power outages or fire alarms, but it’s not exactly  _ideal_ , as it usually means an extra painkiller for his leg as he readies for bed. It’s blessedly quiet, at least, blessedly isolated, which means Hermann can be left alone with his numbers and calculations in  _peace_.

At least it used to be quiet.

Hermann has a new neighbor, and he hears him before he sees him.

He’s only barely given a heads-up that someone moved in to the flat in the first place, and only as a result of a chance meeting with his landlady on the ground floor when he went to collect his mail. Some sort of scientist, she told Hermann, teaching biology three times a week at the local high school despite his multiple (or so rumor has it) doctorates. “As long as he’s  _quiet_ ,” Hermann bristled, though privately, he was excited at the prospect of living so close to someone who was sure to be like-minded. A scientist, biologist, even, with multiple doctorates. Hermann expected someone professional, someone exuding intelligence, someone Hermann would like to have as a colleague. Maybe even a friend. Maybe he’ll have him round for dinner, or for tea, or maybe he’ll just wait until they pass each other in the hallway and nod tersely at him and never interact beyond that. That’s how Hermann’s favorite relationships play out.

The biologist manages to sour all of Hermann’s good will before Hermann can even think seriously of introducing himself. Twenty-four hours after Hermann learns the vacancy has been filled, he’s woken up at seven in the morning to loud music blaring from next door. It takes him a few minutes to realize it’s not just recorded music–the biologist is  _playing an electric guitar_.

Still half-asleep, Hermann reaches blindly for his cane, slips on his dressing gown and glasses and slippers, and marches straight over to the biologist’s flat to pound on the door. After a minute, the music stops. After another minute, the door swings open.

The biologist doesn’t  _look_ anything like Hermann expected, either. He’s young, very young (Hermann’s age, Hermann realizes), messy-haired, tattooed, freckled, and he’s wearing thick glasses that take up half his face and  _very tight_ skinny jeans. He’s also exceptionally handsome, which is most frustrating of all. Hermann wanted to shout, maybe even get a few whacks with his cane in at the man’s calves and pretend it was an accident, but his words die in his throat.

The biologist leans against the doorframe and smiles charmingly at him. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Newt. Are you Dr. Gottlieb?”

“Newt,” Hermann manages to say.

“Yeah,” Newt says, and nods. “That’s me.” Then he repeats, a little more forcefully, “Are you Dr. Gottlieb?”

“Er,” Hermann says, blinking. “Ah! Yes. That’s–yes, I’m Dr. Gottlieb.” Then he remembers why he’s here. “Why the  _hell_ are you playing guitar this early?”

Newt shrugs. "Because it’s fun,” he says. “I’m an early riser.”

“I’m  _not_ ,” Hermann says.

Newt’s still giving him that damned smile. “I’ll keep it down,” he says.

Hermann turns on his heels and slams his door behind him.

 

Hermann’s next run-in with Newt (or  _Dr. Newton Geiszler_ , he finds out, after snooping around the mailboxes) occurs a few weeks later. It’s a nice day, warmer than usual for April, and Hermann wakes uncharacteristically early (though not to loud guitar music, this time) so he takes his morning coffee out to be enjoyed on his small balcony in his small wicker chair. The view is not perfect, and the horizon is mostly obscured by the buildings across the way, but Hermann can still see the pink and orange of the sunrise. It’s enough for him. (Out here, he can pretend Dr. Newton Geiszler does not exist, that the flat next door remains empty, that his happy solitude has not been interrupted.)

Dr. Geiszler’s balcony is a mere few feet away, close enough that one could easily hop over the railings to get to one from the other if they wishes. He’s managed to clutter up the space already: he’s propped a bicycle up against the opposite railing (despite the fact there’s a perfectly good bike rack in the front of the building) and filled all but a small spot with large potted plants (herbs, vegetables, a bewildering amount of strawberries) that have spilled dirt everywhere. Not just a nuisance, but a mess, then. Hermann shudders to think what the inside of his flat looks like.

Newt’s glass door slides open, and Hermann forces himself not to groan aloud. “Hi, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says cheerfully. “Nice morning, huh?”

“Hmph,” Hermann says. He turns away.

“Do you usually chill out here?” Newt says, evidently determined to finish the conversation.

“Sometimes,” Hermann says.

“Cool,” Newt says. He drums his fingers on the railing. “Good talk. See you, I guess.”

Newt’s glass door slides shut.

 

He sees Newt again a few days later. It’s another nice morning, so Hermann’s out on his balcony with coffee once more, and Newt pops out–whistling–in a bathrobe with a yoga mat in hand. “Hope it’s cool if I stretch a bit out here,” he says. “I need some fresh air.”

“It’s your balcony,” Hermann says. He flicks through the newspaper he brought out until he gets to the crossword puzzle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Newt unroll his yoga mat and drop his bathrobe.

“Oh, I did that one this morning,” Newt says. “If you need any help with clues–”

“I  _don’t_ , thank you,” Hermann snaps, a little irritated at the implication that he needs help with a  _crossword puzzle_ , and he looks up to tell Newt to mind his own business–

–and is greeted by the sight of Newt in a tight white t-shirt and the tightest, shortest athletic shorts he’s ever seen in his entire life. “You okay, Dr. Gottlieb?” Newt says, grinning as he watches Hermann mop up coffee from the front of his dressing gown.

“Ah,” Hermann says, “yes, er–” Newt stretches his arms above his head and the hem of his t-shirt rides up, revealing a pleasing expanse of tattooed stomach, a trail of light brown hair–Hermann tears his eyes away and back to the dark stain still spreading all over his chest. “Just clumsy. Very clumsy.”

“Mm-hmm,” Newt says, and Hermann swears he hears him laughing as he rushes back inside to change. When he’s returned (clean and with a new cup of coffee), Newt’s switched to a different pose entirely: on his hands and knees on the yoga mat, faced away from Hermann and arching his back  _rather_ suggestively. The stretchy fabric of his tiny shorts pulls, and pulls… “How’s the puzzle coming?” Newt calls over his shoulder.

“Good,” Hermann chokes out.

Newt has a very nice ass.

* * *

Newt stretches on his balcony three more times that week, then the next week, then the week after, each time in those tiny little shorts and that tank top that barely covers him, each time arching his back and moving his hips in a way that makes Hermann blush and stutter, each time with a cheery little “Hi, Dr. Gottlieb!” 

Hermann considers avoiding his balcony altogether, but that feels like  _losing_ , in a sense. Admitting to his unfortunate inclination for his annoying neighbor. Admitting to the fact that he can be overwhelmed by some simple  _yoga._ (Admitting that, when he’s alone, sometimes he imagines Newt in those tiny shorts bending down in front of Hermann, the fabric of his shirt riding up…) Well. The point is that Hermann refuses to stop enjoying his balcony. And what’s Newt  _stretching_ for, anyway? The man’s a bloody part-time science teacher. It’s not as if he needs to. If anything, he should be embarrassed, not Hermann.

* * *

“Hi, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says as always, winking at Hermann as he rolls out his mat. His shorts are bright red today. Monday they were hot pink. Hermann wonders just exactly how many of these Newt owns.

“Good morning,” Hermann says, begrudgingly.

Newt puts his hands on his hips and rolls his shoulders back with a satisfied groan. “It’s nice as shit out,” he says.

“Mm,” Hermann says. He’s not bothering with a puzzle today–he hasn’t managed to concentrate on those in weeks–but instead idly flips through one of his old notebooks of research. Newt pulls out two small weights. They can’t weigh more than a pound or so each. “Switching it up?” Hermann asks, and then curses himself for acknowledging that he’s well-familiar with Newt’s usual routine.

“Yep,” Newt says.

Newt goes down on his hands and knees, rear stuck out as always. He does his usual stretches while Hermann turns pages and feigns disinterest. Then Newt picks up a weight.

The sound he emits makes Hermann flush hot from the tips of his ears to his chest and clench his notes so tight the paper starts to rip. “Are you alright?” Hermann squeaks. 

“Yeah,” Newt says, oddly breathy. “Why?”

“No reason,” Hermann says.

Newt does it over, and over, and over, his tattooed arms flexing, the stretchy fabric of his shorts pulling _,_ and each deep grunt of effort is more obscene and orgasmic than the last. “Do you care if I take this off?” Newt suddenly says, tugging at the hem of his tank top. Sweat beads his brow. His glasses have slid down his nose. He’s breathing  _far_ more heavily than necessary.

Hermann shakes his head, and Newt’s tank top is off and over his head in seconds; Newt is not remotely well-built. Unfortunately, that’s exactly Hermann’s type.

Hermann enjoys a nice cold shower thirty minutes later.

 

Hermann has a great deal of difficulty following Newt’s inevitable attempts to small talk him the next time. “So you’re a  _doctor_ ,” Newt says, stretching his leg over his head. He looks like a freckled, rainbow pretzel. “Of what?”

“Physics,” Hermann says.

Newt whistles. “Impressive.” He switches to the other leg. “Just you up here, then? No one else?” Hermann narrows his eyes and nods. “Yeah. I’m the same way.” There are a few light patters on the thick awning overtop Hermann’s balcony. Newt looks up. “Oh, shit, it’s raining.”

It is, and getting harder and steadier by the second. Hermann quickly grabs his cane and prepares to head back inside his flat. “See you tomorrow, dude!” Newt calls, scrambling to his feet and tugging on his slider–

–which doesn’t budge.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” he says. “Hey, uh–”

“ _What_ , Geiszler?” Hermann sighs, half inside.

Newt tugs on his slider handle again and smiles sheepishly. “I’m locked out.”

The wind is blowing the rain onto their balconies, cold despite it being spring, and Newt’s already half-drenched and shivering pathetically. Hermann caves immediately. “Can you climb over here?” he sighs, stepping back outside.

Newt nods, lighting up with excitement. “Dude, you’re the best!” He shimmies over both railings and the minuscule gap between them and lands heavily on his feet in front of Hermann.  _Right_ in front of Hermann. “Hi,” he says.

Hermann can make out every tattoo beneath Newt’s soaked white tank top. “Inside,” he manages to say, and Newt nods and trails after him. He shuts the slider behind them.

“You have a nice place, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says. He’s dripping on Hermann’s carpet and still shivering. Hermann sighs again.

“Let me get you a bathrobe,” he says, while Newt looks delighted. “And a towel. And a change of clothing.”

Newt’s stripped out of his tank top once more when Hermann returns from his small laundry room with a small stack of the promised towel, bathrobe, and spare set of pajamas, folded and freshly-warmed in the dryer. “Here,” he says, and thrusts them out at Newt, who immediately begins toweling at his hair.

“You’re fucking awesome,” Newt says. He reaches for the pajamas–which are more or less the single pair of sweatpants Hermann owns and the oldest t-shirt he could find–with one hand, still drying his hair with the other. “Okay, heads up, I’m not wearing any underwear, so you might wanna look away.”

“You’re not wearing any–?” Hermann chokes out, face burning, but Newt’s reaching for the elastic waistband of his (tiny, wet) shorts (with  _nothing_ underneath, apparently) so Hermann immediately fixes his eyes on the ceiling. 

“Okay,” Newt says after a few minutes, suspiciously close, and when Hermann looks back at him he’s a mere few inches away. (The sweatpants and t-shirt fit him poorly, the cuffs of the former rolled up, the latter straining across his torso, and he hasn’t bothered belting the bathrobe.)

Hermann’s breath catches in his throat; his knees feel a bit unsteady. “Er,” he says, leaning heavily on his cane. “All fine, then, Newton?”

“It’s Newt,” Newt says, and smiles. He puts his right hand on Hermann’s waist. Then his left hand.

 

All that stretching has made Newt  _very_ agile, which he’s happy to demonstrate to Hermann.


	154. newt helping hermann shop for new clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Newt and Hermann go shopping since Hermann needs new clothes (he’s been rocking the same wardrobe for years, and what not a better time to get some than before they take up their professor jobs?). Newt nods approvingly whenever Hermann models an outfit, but whOOPS, they end up getting frisky in the dressing room because Hermann in actual form fitting clothes was just Too Much for Newt to handle.

“How about this?” Newt says, and tosses another button-up at Hermann. Unlike the last one–green, with little pink flowers–this one is a navy blue and would look nice with the plaid pants Hermann already picked out. Hermann catches it and examines it critically.

“Flowers?” he says. “I don’t know if I could pull–”

“You can pull off  _anything_ ,” Newt insists. He digs out two more floral ones (yellow, and pale blue) in Hermann’s size and adds them to the pile. Hermann finally caved into Newt’s outright begging to take him clothing shopping (new jobs, new them, Hermann needs some new threads that aren’t baggy and unflattering) and by God, he’s going to take full of advantage of this. “You’re gonna look so cute.”

They find Hermann jeans, next, (and not just any jeans– _skinny jeans_!) in Hermann’s size (his actual size, too, not what he usually parades around in), and a new blazer that’s  _not_ patched and stitched-up and stained in at least three different spots. Hermann remains skeptical throughout the whole thing, but he does–to Newt’s gratification–play along. “What tie?” Newt says, holding up two choices (one with tiny Saturns and another with funny-looking frogs). Hermann makes a face.

“Neither,” he says. “You know I detest ties.”

“But the frog one is  _so cute_ ,” Newt says. When Hermann isn’t looking–distracted and combing through a pile of dress socks–Newt tucks it between the jeans and the navy button-up. Hermann’ll need it for a black tie event eventually anyway. Well. Maybe not exactly black tie.

“Are we almost done?” Hermann says over his shoulder after finally picking up what’s gotta be the most boring pair of socks he could find. “I’d quite like to go home.”

“Just about,” Newt says. “You gotta try everything on still, honey.” He pats Hermann’s butt to steer him in the direction of the changing rooms; Hermann jumps, and his pile of clothing nearly tumbles to the ground.

Hermann is fussy in the changing room, too, and worst of all  _completely_  unwilling to accept Newt’s help. He tries to shove Newt out when Newt followed him in, before relenting and letting Newt steer him onto the little bench and hang his cane carefully on the clothing hook. Now, he won’t let Newt do one of his very favorite activities, one he’s  _very_ good at: undress Hermann. “I know how to  _dress_  myself, Newton,” he snaps, swatting Newt’s hands away from his shirt for the third time.

“I know you do,” Newt–kneeling on the ground in front of him–says, and smiles coyly. He pushes Hermann’s hands away and undoes another button. “But you don’t  _have_ to.”

He gets Hermann’s old and dingy button-up off without a problem, then starts to work on Hermann’s dorky oversized pants, which is when Hermann begins to narrow his eyes in suspicion. “I’m nothaving sex with you in a shopping mall,” he says.

“Perish the thought,” Newt says, and  _accidentally_ brushes his fingers over Hermann’s exposed ankle. Hermann fidgets.

“Newton,” he says. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“You mean help you try on clothing?” Newt says. He spends a very long time undoing Hermann’s pants button and fly, and even longer dragging the fabric down the length of his legs. He pulls each socked foot out one at a time and makes sure to skim his fingers down Hermann’s shins. Hermann is red-faced and breathing funny by the time he’s done.

“You’re a wretched little man,” he says. Newt smiles innocently and tosses Hermann one of the floral shirts, the green and pink short-sleeved one.

“This’ll show off your hot bicep muscles,” he says.

“I haven’t  _got_ any bicep muscles,” Hermann says, but obeys and pulls it on. He lets Newt button it for him. Newt hands him the skinny jeans next.

“You don’t have to get these,” Newt concedes, “but humor me and try them on?” Hermann in skinny jeans is, like, a crazy weird sexual fantasy for him. And for completely valid reasons, he finds out when he helps Hermann wriggle into them. Hermann hasn’t got much of an ass, but the tight pull of fabric accentuates what he  _does_ have (and makes his junk look pretty great). Newt nods approvingly, then stands back and sighs dreamily as Hermann examines himself in the mirror.

“They’re certainly…tight,” Hermann says. He shuffles in a circle. “As is the shirt.”

Newt inches behind him until his front is pressed to Hermann’s back and slides his hands up Hermann’s chest, right up over the buttons. “You  _hunk_ ,” he says, and stands on his tip-toes to kiss Hermann’s temple. “You look so hot. Holy shit. Not that you ever don’t look hot, but–”

“How can you stand these things?” Hermann says, and plucks at the jeans with his free hand. “I’m certain they’re cutting off my circulation.”

Newt creeps his hands lower, down to the waistline of the jeans, then back to grope Hermann’s cute ass. He kisses Hermann’s neck. “No one would hear us,” he says against his skin. “We could just–”

“Absolutely not,” Hermann says, but he sounds less convinced than before, and Newt only has to squeeze his ass a few more times before he moans shakily (barely audible), bites his lower lip, and nods.

By the time they make it out, it’s ten minutes before closing time and Newt’s knees hurt like a bitch from the hard tile floors. He didn’t manage to talk Hermann into the frog tie, but Hermann was pretty easily persuaded into the jeans.


	155. snippet of reincarnation au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I’ve been thinking about a Soulmate/Reincarnation AU. Imagine Newt and Hermann meet and fall in love in every lifetime. Sometimes they meet sooner, sometimes later. One time they met as kids. They’re naturally drawn to each other because they’re destined to be together. Ohhh, and there’s also unexplained flashbacks of their former lives that happen from time to time.

It’s 1932 and Newt Geiszler is spry and young (well, thirty-three, but he’s still spry) and ready to take on the world, to stick it to the man, even if the conference is a drag and he’s stuck in a suit (and a  _tie_ , for Pete’s sake) until he’s finished being paraded around by his superiors. It’s deserted in the foyer of the building where Newt’s managed to sneak off, at least, so no one will see him lose the blazer, undo a button or two, or loosen his tie, or roll his cuffs up to his elbows, or even light up a cigarette.

Well, it’s not totally deserted. Some stiff-looking fellow with elbow patches and a hat and an  _elegantly_ carved cane is standing a few feet away, nursing what looks like a glass of whiskey and occasionally looking in Newt’s direction. Almost furtively. He’s familiar, too, real familiar–Newt’s probably run into him at one of these things before. “Hiya,” Newt calls over, because the urge strikes him (and Newt usually gives into his urges), and the fellow startles and nearly drops the whiskey.

“Hello,” he says. Sounds English. (England’s awfully far from Boston.) Newt’s curiosity is piqued. He flicks ash carelessly to the floor and sidles up alongside the Englishman.

“Newt,” Newt says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m Newt. Newt Geiszler.” Newt sticks out his hand, then–after realizing the Englishman doesn’t have a free hand to take it–lowers it awkwardly. The Englishman stares at him. Probably thinking about what a moron Newt is. Already off to a good start.

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” Newt’s companion says, slowly. He’s still staring at Newt. It’s getting weird. 

Newt waves his hand around. “You here for–all this, then?”

“Yes,” Hermann says. His eyeglasses are on a little chain around his neck, and he pulls them on before scrutinizing Newt some more. “I’m sorry, Dr. Geiszler,” he continues, “but you’re  _terribly_ familiar. Have we met before?”

Newt frowns. “Who said I was a doctor?” Hermann flushes beet red and opens his mouth to answer, but Newt shakes his head. “’S fine. I am. Good guess.” (Nothing weird. They’re at a conference, after all. There are a million doctors here. It’s a logical assumption to make.) “Anyway, I go to a lot of these. We’ve probably bumped into each other before.”

“Perhaps,” Hermann says, but he sounds weirdly hesitant, and Newt can tell he doesn’t believe the excuse. Truthfully, Newt doesn’t either. Hermann’s familiar–very familiar–more familiar than a few run-ins at academic conferences over the years could possibly account for. (He’s not sure why he keeps thinking of the guy as  _Hermann_ , either, why he slipped into a first name-base that fast and that easily.)

He thinks he’d like to get to know him better.

“This thing blows,” Newt says, and tosses his cigarette to the linoleum floor and grinds it underneath his heavy, scuffed-up boot. (They can force Newt into a suit, but no way in hell they’re getting him into dress shoes.) “Wanna ditch?”

Hermann looks like a bit of a square, like he’s a bit too preoccupied with fitting in (though that haircut’s not doing him any favors), so Newt’s surprised when his mouth (wide, strangely appealing) curls into a smile and he nods. “Yes,” he says. “I’d like that a lot.”

On the other hand, you know, Newt’s somehow not that surprised at all. It’s like he expected it. Weird guy.

Hermann takes little to no coaxing to get on the back of Newt’s motorcycle (though it’s a bit of a hassle to figure out the best way to angle his cane), even less coaxing to agree to join Newt for a walk around the park near his apartment. If it goes okay, Newt thinks he might be able to talk Hermann into joining him for a drink, to, maybe at the little dive with good music also not too far away. And if that goes okay–well. Newt doesn’t get laid a whole lot (on account of his…predilections), but Hermann’s been pretty loose with his touches, pretty unsubtle in the way his eyes linger over Newt’s body, so Newt’s pretty sure their predilections are mutual, and Hermann’s exactly the sort of stuffy-educated-repressed type that Newt’s weak for.

“You’re certain we haven’t met before?” Hermann says as they walk. The rhythm of his cane hitting the pavement–a third clack between one light footstep, one heavy–is comforting. Also familiar. “Only I’m sure of it.”

“And I’m sure we haven’t,” Newt says, because he  _is_ : they’ve talked of their studies, their families, their time spent in America, even, and there’s no possible, conceivable way they could have met before. Still: Newt grins, his charming, flirty best. “I’d have trouble forgetting someone like you.”

It’s 1932, and they skip the drink and go straight back to Newt’s apartment, and Hermann’s kisses make him feel nostalgic for something he can’t put his finger on, and Hermann slips Newt a piece of paper with his address on it and says  _write to me_  before he goes. It’s 1932, and Newt knows he’s in love.

In 1855, Hermann splashed his gin in Newt’s face when Newt asked him to spend the night in his rooms–and perhaps Newt could have chosen a pub of less ill-repute, perhaps Newt could have been more subtle, perhaps he could have waited until they were alone to ask–but he slipped Newt his personal address anyway as they parted; in 1797, Newt crumpled up the page in a fit of embarrassment and never saw the infuriating Dr. Gottlieb again. These are the only three times they meet like this. Newt knew he was in love those times, too.

In 2013, Hermann starts with the letter.


	156. "stinky" hermann (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fantasmagoricx asked:  
> Hello Maria This is Not Wen and Leslie and we are Certainly not Hiding Behind the Anon Button Nope not at All Have Gud dAy. Give us. Stanky Bois
> 
> Anonymous said: give us stinky boys

The low down is this: they were both really pumped after the world didn’t end, which is to be expected, like,  _super_ pumped, horny pumped, making out in the middle of LOCCENT with Hermann’s hand on Newt’s ass and Newt’s hands up Hermann’s ugly sweater pumped, Hermann pushing Newt against the wall in the outside hallway while they tried to stagger back to their quarters for privacy pumped, adrenaline-fueled victory fuck pumped. And shit, if Newt doesn’t want to screw Hermann, if that’s not all Newt can think about, ever, if that’s not all he thought about when they raced back to the Shatterdome after drifting (this could be their last moments on Earth, Newt’d thought, he should just drop to his knees for Hermann right here), all he thought about as they shouted instructions to the last jaegers standing.

And then they didn’t die! They didn’t die, and Hermann hugged him, and then Hermann kissed him, and then here they are. 

“We’re gonna have sex,” Newt moans, “holy shit, we’re gonna do it, we’re–” Hermann shoves his hand down the back of Newt’s jeans and squeezes his ass, grunting a little into his mouth, and Newt squeaks delightedly and fists the fabric of the back of Hermann’s blazer. They’re going to do it. He’s going to fuck Hermann. Or Hermann is going to fuck him. The latter seems to be where this is headed–Hermann’s been very fixated on his ass tonight.

“We are,” Hermann says, squeezing hard enough that Newt’ll probably have tiny little purple fingerprints bruised into his ass tomorrow, “oh, Newton,  _yes_ –”

Hermann’s going to fuck him, and that’s fucking awesome, but–Newt realizes, as he gazes at Hermann–the fluorescent lighting of the hallway is a lot less forgiving than the muted blues of LOCCENT, and everything is cast into sharp relief here: the grime and sweat coating Hermann’s face, the heavy layer of chalk dust on his clothing, the red of his eye and the crusted blood in his nostril. Hermann looks  _kind of_ like a mess. And Newt’s no better. Probably worse, actually.

And Hermann…smells kind of funky. Like old coffee. And chalk. And sweat. And not a sexy sweat, either, not body-on-body sweat, but the  _I haven’t changed my shirt in three days_ sweat. (He scrubbed his tongue with his handkerchief and had a breath mint before they started this, at least, thank God). “Hermann,” Newt gasps as Hermann sucks on his neck, and pushes very, very gently at Hermann’s shoulder. “Hey, dude.” Hermann pulls back from him, swaying on his feet, his eyes half-closed in lust. His tongue darts out over his lips.

“Yes?” he says, his voice rough. Newt gets a fraction hornier. Then he remembers why he stopped.

“When’s, uh, the last time you–” Newt swallows, face going a bit pink. “–uh. Showered, buddy?”

Hermann looks mildly bewildered. And no small amount of offended. “The other day,” he says, which Newt knows to mean several days ago.

And boy, Hermann really  _is_ a mess, now that Newt’s not completely blinded by love and a desire to get into those unfashionable pants so he can ride Hermann into the sunset as soon as possible. Blood on his collar. Some other weird stain on his sweater (looks like food). Hair damp from the rain and matted to his head. Newt knows he’s no better, and now that he’s consciously thinking about it, he thinks  _he_ probably smells kind of funky _too_. Hermann goes back in for another kiss, and it takes every ounce of willpower Newt’s got to place his hands on Hermann’s chest and stop him. “Hey, hey, better idea,” he says.

“Better?” Hermann echoes, looking even more bewildered. “Newton, I’d very much like to have  _sex_  with you. Right now.”

“And we will,” Newt says. “In the shower. Shower sex is even hotter. You, me, hot water…” (And soap.) He slides Hermann’s blazer off his shoulders, then starts to work the sweater over his head; Hermann sways again, clinging to his cane, but he looks comfortably flushed.

“Oh,” Hermann says, and he smiles. “Ah. Alright, Newton.”

Newt kisses his neck. “Can we use your shower?” Hermann, he knows (from the handful of times Hermann’s given into his begging and let him use it), has got his own private shower, nice and big with a bar and a little waterproof stool for when Hermann’s too exhausted to stand. Maybe Newt could use it to go down on him or something.

Hermann’s shut his eyes, his mouth hanging half-open. “Uh-huh.” 

The sheer amount of dirt that comes off of them in the shower is, frankly, completely disgusting. And not just dirt. Plaster and pebbles (from Newt’s fiasco in the shelter), blood, stuff that’s probably alien in origin and a full-on biohazard. After some intense scrubbing–with Hermann’s pristine washcloth and his collection of barely-touched body washes and shampoos–Newt deems them both acceptably clean and, more importantly, not smelly. “Alright, handsome,” Newt says, massaging at Hermann’s freshly-washed scalp just to draw out more sexy little noises, “let’s get dried off so we can  _bang_.”

“I thought we were going to have sex here,” Hermann says. He blinks up at Newt from where he sits on his stool. (Or Newt thinks he blinks. It’s hard for Newt to really make out what Hermann’s doing right now because he’s blind as shit without his glasses.)

“Uh,” Newt says, wondering if he should just tell Hermann the truth (that he didn’t want to have sex with him when he smelled weird), but also not wanting to hurt Hermann’s feelings. Or piss him off. Both are likely options. “I did say that. Okay. Let me just–” Hermann’s started tugging and pulling at Newt until he’s eye level with Newt’s crotch. “ _Oh_ ,” Newt says. “Wouldn’t you rather fuck me in bed?”

“I see no reason why I can’t do that after,” Hermann says, and starts doing something with his tongue that makes Newt go cross-eyed.

“Oh, shit,” Newt squeaks, clutching at Hermann’s hair with one hand and the shower bar with the other, “oh, shit, Hermann, that’s awesome,  _wow_ –”


	157. hermann gets stuck in parka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Okay a slightly silly prompt because why not: While wearing his parka, Hermann gets the zipper stuck and can't get the jacket off. After a moment it starts to get hot. And an embarrassed, half-suffocated Hermann has to go and find Newton before he passes out.

Strictly speaking in terms of logic, it made sense for Newt and Hermann to swap spare room keys. They’re together all the time, anyway, dawn til dusk, work and breakfast through dinner, and usually that includes being in each other’s bedrooms at some point or another. (For purely professional reasons.) The keys just make it easier for them to aid-slash-harass each other (ie, Newt dragging a half-unconscious and sleep-deprived Hermann back to bed for some fucking rest, Hermann storming in and accusing Newt of stealing his comb or blanket or toothpaste once a week) when the need arises. Unfortunately, the bonus side effects that Newt was  _hoping_ for (and fantasized about) have yet to occur. Hermann hasn’t barged through his bedroom door in the middle of the night and demand Newt make violent love to him yet, nor has he even tried to cuddle with him.

At least, not until tonight they haven’t, when Hermann–parka zipped up to his neck, flushed, and sweating profusely–suddenly shoves Newt’s door open so hard it hits the wall with an echo and shouts “Get this off me  _now_.”

Newt gapes at Hermann for a few moments. When he decides Hermann’s actually real, and actually standing in front of him, and that this is actually happening, he scrambles to his feet and over to Hermann as fast as humanly possible. “Oh  _fuck_  yes,” he says, already tugging on the bottom hem of his t-shirt. “Hermann, dude, you have no idea how bad–”

“What in the blazes are you talking about?” Hermann cuts in, squinting at him.

Newt drops his hand from his t-shirt. “…What are youtalking about?” 

Hermann reaches to the top of his parka with his free hand and yanks hard on the zipper; it doesn’t budge. “The bloody thing’s stuck,” he says. “I’m  _boiling_  in here. Can you get it off?”

“Right,” Newt says. “That’s exactly what I thought you meant.”

He has to stand awfully close to Hermann to get a good grip on the zipper, and even then, it’s tough–it’s stuck on Hermann’s thick sweater, and Newt has to stand on the tips of his toes (tongue between his teeth in concentration) to see what he’s doing. Hermann really did a number on himself. He doesn’t think Hermann was exaggerating about boiling alive, either; the parka is downy and fur-lined and  _thick_ , leftover from the few miserable months they were stationed together in Alaska. Newt had one, too. He either burned it or just threw it out. He can’t remember which. “Are you almost done?” Hermann says.

“No,” Newt says. “Jesus, Hermann, stop fidgeting.”

Hermann scowls at him, but the incessant tapping of his fingers on the head of his cane stop. “I’m  _hot_ ,” he says.

“Yeah, you said that.” Newt, at a loss for anything else to do, gives the zipper a great tug: Hermann sways dangerously on his feet. Nothing else happens. Newt frowns. “You really screwed this thing up, huh?”

“I was in a hurry,” Hermann says. He’s still flushed, and his cheeks have gone a bright pink. (Probably from heat stroke.) Newt’s constantly amazed at Hermann’s ability to look cute even in the most dire and unflattering circumstances.

Newt grabs him by the arm and tugs towards his bed. “C’mon,” he says. “It’ll be easier if you’re sitting down.”

He has the zipper half-unstuck from the sweater in five minutes. The parka off entirely in only two more. Hermann’s shoulders immediately sag, and he lets out a long, relieved sigh. “Thank you, Newton,” he says. “I appreciate it.”

They’re still pretty close. Close enough that Newt can feel Hermann’s breath on his face. It makes him want to do something absurd, and ill-advised, like grip Hermann’s face by the cheeks and kiss him. He forces himself to keep it casual. “Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” he says, and pats Hermann’s shoulder. “Foiled by a zipper.”

“You left your glasses in the microwave last week,” Hermann says.

“I have never claimed to be competent,” Newt says.


	158. sexy physicist newt roleplay/he blinded me with science part 2 (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> asl;dkfj hi love ur work! would u ever consider doign something like 'he blinded me with science' again because thats um. my fave thing ever
> 
> Anonymous said: As a follow-up from Newton getting Hermann to roleplay with the chainsaw and the lab coat, can we have Hermann getting his wish to have Newton in front of his chalkboard dressed as a sexy physicist?

Newt was pretty surprised when Hermann agreed to it the first time around–roleplay isn’t really something they  _do_ , hardly ever–so when he’s the one to propose it the second time around, Newt’s even  _more_ surprised, to say nothing of the fact that it’s in the middle of sex. “It only seems fair,” Hermann says, far too casual for how he’s currently screwing Newt’s brains out over the back of their couch. He grips a chunk of Newt’s hair and pulls his head back, just to hear him squeak, Newt expects. “I put on that ridiculous apron for you–”

“But you wanted to,” Newt says. “You were into it, fuck–”

Hermann’s other hand tightens on his hip, angling him up higher. “–held a  _chainsaw_ –”

“Fake chainsaw,” Newt says. “Oh, fuck, Hermann, a little harder, yeah–”

They curl up in a little pile on the carpet, afterwards, breathing heavy, not even bothering to drag down a pillow or blanket. (They’d get overheated, anyway.) Hermann won’t stop kissing his neck, or dragging his fingers up and down Newt’s abdomen and squeezing him.

“It would make me happy,” Hermann says.

“Do I not already?” Newt says, entirely joking, but Hermann breathes in sharply.

“Oh, darling, I didn’t mean it like–”

“Dude, relax.” Newt nuzzles the top of his head affectionately. “I’ll be a slutty physicist for you. It’s not a big deal.”

It’s not a big deal, really, Newt is usually almost always game for whatever shenanigans Hermann’s up for in the bedroom (lacy panties, handcuffs, hoisting Newt over his lap and spanking him pink), but he’s severely lacking in the inspiration department for his costume. Suspenders? A lab coat? Hermann’s lab coat, maybe, that great big baggy black thing, and maybe Newt could borrow his glasses, too. Fellate some chalk in front of him.

 

Ultimately, he borrows Hermann’s labcoat and his spare glasses chain (it’s easier to just attach that to his own glasses than fumble blindly through sex in Hermann’s), and pairs that with some of the sexy underwear Hermann bought him for Hermann’s last birthday (yes, Hermann’s). Nothing else. Pair that with the chalkboard in their mini home office-slash-lab, and he’ll be the sluttiest physicist that Hermann’s ever seen. 

Newt definitely underestimates how much Hermann is into it. He thought he’d be able to play out a scene, at least, before Hermann snapped and shoved his hands up his coat, maybe even play a little hard to get (refuse to touch Hermann until Hermann answers some very easy problems, something like that), but they only manage to keep their roles in play for a combined grand total of five minutes. He starts out by licking at some candy cigarettes he appropriated as chalk as planned, then, when Hermann seems properly sweaty and riled up, by sits on Hermann’s desk, spreads his legs, and rubs at himself with Hermann’s bendy plastic ruler. “Space gets me so  _horny_ ,” he says, then unbuttons the top of the borrowed labcoat and pinches at his nipple.

Hermann’s up and out of his seat and wrapping his arms around Newt in a flash, after that, cane clattering to the floor and already boasting a pretty impressive boner. “Oh, Newton–”

Newt lets him kiss neck, but he does swat Hermann’s hand away from where it’s begun to creepy stealthily up his bare thigh. “Easy there, Dr. Gottlieb,” he says, forcing himself to keep his voice low and sultry. “You haven’t earned–” Hermann squeezes his ass with both hands. Newt yelps. “Jeez, Hermann!”

“You look  _gorgeous_ ,” Hermann moans.

Newt drags one of Hermann’s hands around from his ass to replace the ruler (which had been becoming uncomfortable, in truth) and Hermann rubs at him through the lace of his panties eagerly. “I bet I can estimate the velocity of the fucking I’m about to get,” Newt pants. “Holy shit, dude, I’m gonna jizz myself before we even  _start_.”

“Don’t you dare,” Hermann scolds, but he rubs at Newt harder and leans in and nips at his lower lip. Newt whines and thrusts his hips out desperately. “I need that coat, Newton.”

“I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning.” Newt hooks his leg around Hermann’s waist and inches him closer. “Now do me like one of your equations.”

Hermann makes a face. “That’s awful.”

Newt grins. “Put your space probe in my black hole?”

“Newton,” Hermann says.


	159. newt spanking hermann (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Nsfw prompt: Newt and Hermann decide to try something new: spanking. But when they start, Hermann being the reveicing end, they just burst out laughing because it seems so ridiculous to them.
> 
> Anonymous said: You said something about Newt over Hermann’s lap with Hermann spanking Newt pink, but what about Newt spanking Hermann pink? Newt loves Hermann’s cute little butt, and Hermann’s *SO* pale. I bet Newt would love to see a pretty pink on Hermann’s pretty little bottom.
> 
> Anonymous said: in your kinky xmas newmann fic you mentioned spanking so i have to share one of my silly little headcanons with you: newt loves to not quite spank hermann. Like, newt will totally walk by hermann and give him a playful smack on the ass, but in the bedroom? newt likes to position hermann on his stomach as comfortably as possible, then pinch and nibble on and squeeze and kiss and lightly pat hermann’s adorable little bottom. hermann doesn’t understand the appeal but he loves the attention.

The appeal of it, really, is not in the act itself–Hermann is not a remotely violent man–but in Newton’s reactions to it: the way he squeaks, the way he writhes, the way he rubs himself down on Hermann’s thigh (desperate for friction) and begs for more, begs for Hermann to love him enough to hurt him a little. And, of course, there’s the element of Newton’s endlessly appealing ass and Hermann’s complete inability to keep his hands off it, which is not to be ignored, and how pink and tender and lovely it looks afterwards. But ultimately, the simple fact of it is that it’s Newton that makes it enjoyable, Newton who made Hermann consider it in the first place, Newton who, now, for some odd reason, is insistent on reversing their roles and having a go at Hermann.

(He started out with subtle hints–lightly patting Hermann’s rear in the lab as he passed, lavishing more attention to it than usual when he would use his tongue in certain exciting ways, groping it a little more than necessary when Hermann would fuck him–before growing impatient and simply announcing it over lunch.)

“Everything okay?” Newton says. “Leg fine?”

He’s rested his hand on the flat of Hermann’s bare back, and now he drags it down to caress Hermann’s thigh with small, gentle circles. “Mm,” Hermann says, eyes drifting shut. They’re the same gentle touches that Newton uses when he’s massaging Hermann’s stiff leg, touches meant to soothe, to relax. Hermann could fall asleep like this. He has, before.

“Angle not straining you?” Newton says, and he skims the fingers of his other hand along the elastic waistband of Hermann’s underwear.

Hermann huffs out a laugh: Newton’s propped his knee up on half the pillows they own. “Not too terribly,” he says, mildly sarcastic.

Then Newton’s hand comes down on his ass.

Hermann does not squeak, nor does he gasp, or giggle, or (as in one memorable occasion) squeal, like Newton usually does. It doesn’t feel much like anything. It just sort of…stings, a bit. Hermann makes a noise of discontent.

“Did you not like that?” Newton says.

“No,” Hermann lies. “Er. Try it again.” He wriggles his hips. “Perhaps without the–”

“Oh, yeah,” Newton says.

He slips Hermann’s briefs down around his thighs, baring him to the chill of their bunk, but one of his strong, sturdy hands quickly smooths over his skin to warm him up. “You’ve been a  _bad_  scientist,” Newton declares, in a tone he likely imagines to be sexy, and Hermann has to stifle another laugh. “I have to punish you.”

“ _Do_ you?” Hermann says. Hermann adores Newton, but at a certain level it is difficult to take him seriously. Now is such a time. It’s one thing for Hermann to run down the list of Newton’s latest flagrant transgressions against him and the lab rules–tossing entrails over the yellow line, leaving dishes in the sink for over the designated twenty-four hour period, calling Hermann by his first name in front of their superiors–and smack him accordingly for each one, but Hermann can’t think of a single thing he could have possibly done recently to warrant any of Newton’s wrath. It’s also difficult to imagine Newton having  _wrath_.

“Uh,” Newton says, sounding unsure, but still rubbing at him. “Yeah.”

“What have I done, then?” Hermann says.

Newton is silent. Then he brings his hand down on Hermann’s ass again. Hermann yelps, this time, though more from the shock of it, and to his surprise Newton echoes it. “Jesus, Hermann, you’re a  _bony_ son of a bitch.” Hermann peeks over his shoulder to see Newton examining his palm. “I think I’m gonna have a bruise.” He shakes it out.

“Would you like me to kiss it better?” Hermann offers, reverting back to sarcasm. Sarcasm that Newton does not pick up on, unfortunately–he smiles sweetly, as if pleased Hermann even offered.

“Nah, you’re fine,” he says, and then raises his hand. “Okay, round three.” He strikes Hermann’s cheeks three more times in quick succession, and finishes with a pinch to the lower half of Hermann’s left cheek. “How’s that feel, baby?”

Hermann dissolves into giggles.

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to wheeze out, muffled, on account of his face pressed close to the bedspread, but he can hear Newton giggling, too. “I really am, darling, you’re just not–”

“Not  _what_?”

“Not exactly intimidating.”

“Jackass,” Newton laughs, and he delivers one final smack. Then–to Hermann’s  _actual_  enjoyment–he starts massaging his ass gently, squeezing a little. It feels even better than the thigh massage, better than when Newton massages his leg. Hermann’s neglected prick  _finally_  begins to take an interest. “At least you’re all pink. It’s hot.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hermann moans, clutching at the bed and arching into Newton’s touch. “Oh, that’s lovely, Newton.”

Newton pats at him a few times. “Scoot on up,” he says, and Hermann obeys, or really, merely allows Newton to manhandle him from his lap to the bed and spread-eagle on his stomach. Newton crouches between his legs. “How’s this instead?” he murmurs, and kisses down Hermann’s spine, down lower, and lower, down to nip at the skin of Hermann’s left cheek, then right, then to drag his tongue over the light bitemarks.

“Oh, yes, Newton,” Hermann breathes, and Newton busies himself with doing something to Hermann far more enjoyable than the spanking.


	160. alone in a cabin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 10 for the winter prompt thing🤔
> 
> 10: our friends rent a cabin to go skiing and we’re the only ones who stay inside

“You don’t have to,” Hermann says. “I really don’t mind.”

Newt folds his book shut, finger marking his spot. “Who says I’m doing this for you?” he says, then adds, because he loves watching Hermann bluster and squirm, “Conceited.”

Hermann flushes. “I’m not,” he says, hurriedly. “That isn’t–I wasn’t implying–”

Newt takes pity. “Chill,” he says. He grins, and tosses his book–which was some boring biography about some famous chef he found on one of the shelves here–onto the coffee table. “I stayed behind because I  _wanted_  to hang out with you, Hermann.” Hang out with Hermann alone. Just the two of them. All isolated. No one around, everyone too busy at the ski lodge some thirty minutes (at least) away to care what they’re doing back at the little rented cabin.

Newt was hoping for a chance to come onto Hermann, finally, maybe  _accidentally_ spill coffee on himself so he has to whip off his t-shirt in the middle of the living room in full view of Hermann, but the cabin’s so fucking cold that he hasn’t wanted to do anything other than sit in his little blanket nest with all three of his layers on (undershirt, button-up, and a sweater he lifted from Hermann without technically asking) and occasionally get up to stoke the fireplace. Hermann’s not faring any better: he runs  _way_ colder than Newt, and he’s got double the blankets and a whole scarf in his little bundle, though he stopped shivering some time ago after Newt fixed him tea. “I hate skiing, anyway,” Newt says.

“Then why’d you come?” Hermann says.

Newt shrugs. “Because you did.”

Hermann lets out a hiss of air through his teeth. “ _I_ only agreed to come because I thought  _you_ wanted to.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Well, we’re both stuck here now. You chilly?”

Hermann hesitates, then nods.

Newt springs to his feet just long enough to join Hermann on the loveseat, burrow under his blankets, and add his own to the pile. “There,” Newt says, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh with Hermann. He reaches up and pats Hermann’s arm, enjoying the way the soft wool of his sweater feels. “All nice and cozy.” And it is cozy, about twice as much as it had been. Hermann doesn’t produce a whole lot of body heat, but combined… 

Hermann coughs. He isn’t looking Newt in the face, but has fixed his eyes on the ceiling instead, still strangely flushed. Newt decides it’s time to make a move. He starts to slip his arm around Hermann’s shoulders; Hermann goes rigid. “What are you doing?” he says. He sounds oddly bashful.

“Warming you up better,” Newt says. “You look  _so_  cold, dude.” (This is a lie: there’s sweat at Hermann’s brow.) Newt curls his fingers around Hermann’s shoulder, the one not brushing against him, and squeezes it, and Hermann leans into his touch. Here, Newt can better see the warm brown of his eyes, the strangely delicate way his eyelashes fan out over his cheeks when he blinks.

“That’s better,” Hermann murmurs. His hand begins to creep over to Newt’s under the covers, and he licks his lips, eyes wide. “Er. Newton…”

“Mmhmm?” Newt says, lacing their fingers together.

Hermann opens his mouth just as a loud  _crack_ comes from the fireplace, startling them into jumping apart on impulse; a log, burnt at the middle, finally splitting in two and crashing down to the embers below. After a second, Newt laughs. “Wow,” he says, “that–”

Hermann grips him by the jaw and kisses him.

Some time later, when he lets Newt–pink, dazed, and beaming–go, he pats his cheek affectionately and flashes a smile of his own. All of his previous coyness, his tentativeness, the innocent way he’d gazed at Newt, is gone. “I’ve been planning on doing that that all evening,” he declares.

“ _Sweet_ ,” Newt says.


	161. gottbleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> In celebration of Gottbleed week: Hermann gets a nosebleed mid-sexytimez with Newt, and Newt, impulsive and uncouth as ever, grabs his t-shirt from the floor and shoves it at Hermann to stem the bleeding.

In hindsight, Hermann thinks that maybe they should’ve sought at least  _minor_ medical attention before fleeing LOCCENT and diving right into bed together. Their eyes are still quite red, after all, and Hermann’s brain is still buzzing with dredged-up memories he’d long forgotten and the wispy remnants of the hivemind (which mean Newton’s brain is, too–or maybe that’s actually Newton’s he’s feelingbuzzing, Newton’s memories he’s reliving, it’s very hard to differentiate between mine-his-theirs now that they’ve drifted). They had the choice to go to medical, and were ordered to go to medical, actually, by Hansen, but then Newton tucked his arm around Hermann’s middle and gave him a  _look_ and said, blunt and to the point, “We should fuck.”

And Hermann said “Alright.”

That went smoothly, at least, but nothing after that did.

Somewhere along the line (probably when he was running for his life from the kaiju) Newton lost the key to his bunk, so their original plan to get things started there had to be swiftly scrapped and relocated to Hermann’s bunk. Then Newton got impatient and started climbing on Hermann in the hallway, which made Hermann drop his key no less than four times, and then Newton chose a very bad moment to throw himself entirely at Hermann (that moment being, in fact, just when Hermann finally managed to get the door open), and rather than cornering Hermann for a kiss they ended up tumbling into a heap on the carpet instead.

This leads them to where they are now: Hermann sprawled out on the floor half-in his own doorway, cane flung far out of reach, and Newton lying atop him, victory-drunk and flushed and giggling too hard to get to his feet and stand. “Let’s just do it right here,” Newton says, kissing messily down Hermann’s face, breath warm and nose bumping into him more often than his lips. Hermann’s never been kissed like this before, though he hasn’t had much in the way of experience.

He has to admit, for as much as he cares about Newton (as much as he loves Newton, really, no use pretending otherwise now that Newton’s trying to stick his hand down his pants), and as much as he’s attracted to Newton, there’s nothing about Newton that particularly screams  _erotic_ right now. He’s grimy and badly scraped everywhere that Hermann can see. His glasses are cracked in three different places. The piece of tissue he jammed up his nose on the helicopter ride over is quite bloody.

If not a trip to medical, they could have, perhaps, at least  _showered_.

“I am not sleeping with you like this,” Hermann declares. His feet are sticking out in the hallway, as are Newton’s, and aside from how easily they’d be spied (Hermann is not a exhibitionist), they’d likely trip anyone who tried to walk by. Especially given how much alcohol had been passed around.

“Lame,” Newton says, but he pushes himself up to his knees, breathing heavily. “Here.” He hoists Hermann up by the front of his sweater ‘til they’re face to face; before Hermann can ask for his help in standing all the way up, Newton’s tangling his fingers in Hermann’s hair and kissing him soundly again.

“At least shut the door,” Hermann gasps, as Newton slides his lips down to his jaw, and Newton laughs again and finally hops to his feet.

Newton helps Hermann onto the edge of the bed, then starts stripping himself of his clothing, button-up and undershirt and tie landing in a heap next to his boots and corduroys, until all that’s left are his boxers. Then those go too.

He strikes a pose with his hands on his hips. “Like what you see?” Newton says, low and not exactly sultry (but he’s certainly trying, and it certainly works), and he drops forward and kneels in the v of Hermann’s legs–

–only to suddenly freeze in place, mild horror spreading across his face. “You’re bleeding,” he says.

“What?” Hermann says, because he’d been rather distracted. He feels something warm drip from his nose: his fingers come away red when he touches it. He  _is_ bleeding. “Oh.” The fall to the floor must have re-agitated his post-drift nosebleed.

“Shit,” Newt says, “okay, uh–” His eyes flick around Hermann’s room, likely searching for tissues, and before Hermann can instruct him to simply use a wad of toilet paper from his private attached bathroom Newton’s darting to the floor and snatching up his boxers. He sticks them out at Hermann. “Use these,” he says.

“ _Absolutely_ not!” Hermann says, wrinkling his nose in disgust, which just makes it bleed harder.

Newton looks down at his hand. “Yeah, no, what was I thinking?” He drops the underwear and throws his undershirt at Hermann instead. “ _This_. Use this.”

An undershirt, filthy as it may be, is better than nothing, so Hermann presses it to his nose and pinches hard. “Thank you, Newton,” he says, though it comes out muffled and nasally.

It’s a bit disgusting, but it’s also a bit…sweet, that Newton would sacrifice one of his shirts for Hermann, and Hermann can’t help himself from smiling at the gesture. Even if it makes his nose sting more. “Here,” Newton says, and he kneels back on the bed, seduction entirely forgotten as he takes the undershirt from Hermann and holds it in place for him.

Hermann reaches up and wraps his fingers around Newton’s wrist gently. (Newton, when he wants to be, can be very sweet.) Newton smiles in return.


	162. alien pollen, but hermann just gets super emotional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> dhfsgjgjdhgkjhjksl Chaotic Idea: Herms accidentally runs into Alien Pollen in the lab but hear me out instead of like, horny, it makes him like,, Super Emotional,, sfgjkghl im,

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Hermann says.

The real answer to Hermann’s question is absolute and unequivocal  _no_ , because it is definitely not safe, all of Newt’s carefully acquired research so far–i.e., acquired via poking the plant with various things he finds around the lab and taking the temperature of its soil–points to that, but Hermann already gets on him enough as is for all the weird toxic kaiju junk he leaves lying around and Newt  _really_ doesn’t want to incur anymore wrath against himself, so he lies. “Yep,” he says. “Uh, totally safe.” He’s got his eye pressed to his microscope to examine a piece of the plant (one of the blossoms, dusted with a strange purple pollen that seems to almost glitter in the fluorescent lights), and he doesn’t bother looking up at Hermann when he speaks.

This, as most of Newt’s choices in his day-to-day life, turns out to be a mistake.

“It smells rather nice,” Hermann says, and then there’s a strange, small explodingnoise, like someone popping a paper bag, and Hermann says “Oh, no.”

“What’d you do?” Newt sighs, lifting his head and sliding his glasses back down, expecting to see the pot tipped over onto the floor or the plant shriveled up dead. He immediately panics, because that’s not the case: Hermann’s gone and  _touched_ the fucking thing.

He’s covered in a light layer of the purple pollen, top to bottom, unstylish haircut to unstylish shoes, finger still pressed to one pink leaf and frozen in shock. Newt freezes, too. He stares at Hermann. Hermann stares back. Hours seem to pass by. When it becomes apparent that Hermann isn’t about to drop dead, or sprout another head, or turn into some horrible Cronenberg-esque kaiju hybrid monster, Newt takes a cautious step towards him. “Hey, uh, Hermann. You good?”

“I believe so,” Hermann says, and finally pulls his hand away from the plant. He looks down at himself and  _tsks_ at the mess. “Oh, Newton, look what you’ve done.” He tries to brush some pollen off his sweater and fails. His following attempts to clean his glasses off don’t fair any better.

“What  _I’ve_ done?” Newt says. “Who goes around touching weird plants? I mean, other than me.”

“You told me it was  _safe_ ,” Hermann hisses. “I didn’t think–”

He suddenly staggers to the side, cane clattering to the floor, hand flying out and catching onto the side of Newt’s work bench. He looks pale under the pollen.

Newt panics for a second time. “Hermann!” he shrieks, and rips his work gloves off and rushes to Hermann’s side. Hermann’s skin is warm to the touch when Newt herds him into the closest desk chair (Newt’s), and his eyes are strangely unfocused. “I’ll get you some water,” Newt says, but Hermann catches his wrist and draws Newt back to his side. He shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice high. “Really, I’m just a bit dizzy. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

“You’re sweating,” Newt says. 

“Am I?” Hermann says. “How strange.”

Newt tries to pull his arm away, deadset on getting Hermann that water, but Hermann’s started…stroking his wrist. “Newton,” he says.

“Uh,” Newt says.

“Newton,” Hermann says again, and then he says Newt’s name three more times with worrying increasing levels of softness.

Newt’s watched enough sci-fi (and, yeah, sci-fi porn) to know where this is going. “Oh,  _shit_ ,” he says. “Was that some weird sex pollen? Hermann–” He jerks his arm away hard, and Hermann drops his hand like he’s been burned. He frowns at Newt. “Listen, buddy,” Newt says. “Let’s get you into the shower. You really don’t know what you’re doing.” (It figures that the only scenario in which Hermann would ever want to bang him is when he’s sex-pollen’d out of his mind, but Newt’s not going to dwell on that right now.)

Hermann does not budge. “Newton,” he sighs, blinking wide eyes at Newt. “Dear boy.” He reaches out–Newt tenses–and pats Newt’s knee–Newt un-tenses. “You mean a great deal to me, you know.”

“Dear boy?” Newt chokes out. Somehow, this is weirder than Hermann coming onto him would’ve been.

“You always have,” Hermann says. “And I know I don’t always–” To Newt’s wild alarm, his eyes start to fill with tears. Newt’s never seen Hermann cry before. He isn’t really sure what to do. “I know I can be  _cross_ with you sometimes, but you’re my dearest friend.” He sniffs. “You’re more than that. You’re–” But before Hermann can finish the thought (to Newt’s disappointment), he curls his fingers in the front of Newt’s shirt, tugs him forward, and plants his face in Newt’s chest.

Newt watches his shoulders shake as he proceeds to cry two large wet patches into the fabric. He pats Hermann’s shoulder awkwardly. “Whew. Okay,” he says. “I really care about you too, Hermann.”

Hermann sniffles.

Newt squeezes his shoulder this time. “You’re, you know. My best friend, too.” He wonders if Hermann rubbed some of that wonky powder onto him–he’s starting to feel a little touchy-feely himself. God, this is embarrassing. He hopes no one walks in and finds them like this. It’ll be difficult to explain. “You’re my only friend,” he admits, after a few seconds’ consideration.

It’s certainly interesting data. And the hug is…really, really nice.


	163. painkillers post-surgery newt finding out and and hermann are married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> You've seen that video of that guy who just got his wisdom teeth out and he's like... crying that he's got a wife and a dog and a sister? I can just imagine Newt being loopy for whatever reason and just crying from the sheer joy of being married to Hermann and the Kaiju being defeated.

“Will he be alright?” Hermann says.

The nurse–likely noting Hermann’s none-too-subtle fretting, the way he’s been twisting the head of his cane over and over in his hands–gives Hermann a polite smile and touches his shoulder. “Dr. Geiszler is completely fine,” he says. “The anesthesia will wear off in a few hours, and you can take him home at the end of the week.”

The end of the week. Five more days. Five more days  _without Newton_ ; five more nights of Hermann alone in their bed, clutching Newton’s pillow, bundled up in Newton’s sweatshirts, and imagining his poor husband holed up in the hospital without proper meals and, more importantly, without Hermann by his side. Hermann pets Newton’s hair (tangled, and in need of a wash) back from his forehead gently. Newton does not stir. “Not any sooner?” Hermann says.

“The end of the week,” the nurse repeats firmly, and he leaves them be.

Hermann scoots his chair in closer to Newton’s side and reaches out and tucks Newton’s hand under his own. “I’ll take you home very soon,” he says, and rubs his thumb comfortingly over Newton’s knuckles (not that Newton can feel it). “You can pick out whatever you’d like for dinner. And watch whatever movie you’d like, too.” Hermann may, perhaps, be  _somewhat_ overreacting–Newton’s only had his appendix removed after all, he’s notdying, and it hasn’t even been a full day since Hermann drove him to the hospital in a frenzy–but he’s frankly of the opinion that he has every right to overreact. Or be melodramatic, as Newton might say. He  _misses_  Newton, damn it, and the staff refuses to let Hermann stay overnight.

This time, Newton stirs, blinking back to reality sleepily. “Hi?” he says. His voice is faint, and cracked with disuse, and his eyes are strangely dazed and unfocused, but he’s the loveliest sight Hermann’s seen all day.

“Oh, darling,” Hermann coos, slipping his hand up to cup Newton’s cheek and unable to stop himself from coddling his poor husband, “dear boy, how are you feeling?”

“Uh,” Newton says. “Fine, I think?” He turns his unsteady gaze on the rest of the room. “Shit, am I in the hospital?”

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Appendicitis.” He doesn’t say much more; he doubts Newton will remember waking up in the middle of the night and scaring Hermann half to death with his tears and sharp gasps of pain, but Hermann doesn’t exactly fancy reliving it. He brushes Newton’s hair back once more. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Nah,” Newton says. He squints at Hermann. “Do you know where my glasses are?” Hermann pulls them out of his front pocket–they forgot them last night in their mutual haste to get to the hospital, so Hermann went back for them today–and hands them over wordlessly. Newton slips them on. “Cool,” Newton says. He gives Hermann a very strange look. His eyes aren’t any less unfocused.

“Er, are you hungry?” Hermann says. “Thirsty?” He holds out the large plastic cup of water the nurse brought in earlier, curled pink straw and all (the sort of thing that would make Newton smile), but Newton does not take it.

“Nah,” Newton repeats. He shuts his eyes again, and Hermann assumes he’s gone back to sleep before he suddenly mumbles, “You’re  _really_ familiar.”

The nurse warned Hermann earlier that the after-effects of the anesthesia might make Newton a bit loopy, a bit forgetful (but all only temporary), so Hermann doesn’t descend into full-blown panic and start slamming the call button for the nurse as he might’ve otherwise. He forces a laugh instead. “I certainly hope I’m familiar.”

“What d’you mean?” Newton says. He cracks an eyelid, and then breaks into a wide smile. “Oh! You look like Hermann.”

“Hermann?”

“Hermann’s my penpal,” Newton says. “He’s great. Total dork. Love him. Can I have some water, actually?” Hermann nods, and hands Newton the cup; Newton sucks down half of it in one go. “And cute, too,” Newton adds.

“Me or your penpal?” Hermann says, struggling not to smile.

“Easy, tiger,” Newton slurs, and then, “‘S hot.” He starts to kick off his blanket, and Hermann stops him.

“No,” he scolds, and takes over dragging the blanket off Newton carefully himself. Once he’s folded it over itself neatly at the foot of the bed, he smooths a hand down Newton’s chest, over his rumpled hospital gown. “Don’t strain yourself, darling.”

Newton’s eyebrows jump. “Who’re you again?” he says.

Hermann leans in and brushes his lips over Newton’s temple. He may as well reveal the whole truth to Newton, now. “Hermann,” he says, “your husband.”

Several emotions cross Newton’s face at once. It’s fairly amusing. “ _Hermann_?” he says. “Like–”

“Mm-hmm,” Hermann says. He squeezes Newton’s hand.

To his surprise, Newton’s eyes immediately well up with tears. “We’re  _married_?” he says. “Wow. Holy shit.”

Hermann laughs, a bit bewildered. “Is that a bad thing?”

Newton shakes his head, crying harder. “What, uh, what about the kaiju?”

“Quite taken care of,” Hermann says.

Newton rubs at his eyes and sniffles. “That’s so great. Wow.” He pats at Hermann’s arm clumsily. “Can I kiss you?”

Hermann obliges, of course. After Newton gets his kiss–chaste and brief and gentle–he allows Hermann to tuck the blanket back around him. “Rest,” Hermann says, and gives him one last kiss for good measure. Newton’s eyelids flicker shut again. “Only a few more days and you’ll be home.” And Hermann won’t be alone in that great big bed anymore and clinging to Newton’s clothing like a toddler with its blanket.

“Home with my husband,” Newton says, slurring his words again. “Ha. Awesome.” 


	164. pi day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> maria it’s pi day 🥧 hermann and newt should celebrate

“This is, like, a big holiday for you, isn’t it?” Newt says.

Hermann pulls off his glasses and squints at Newt across the lab. “Holiday?” he says. “It’s March 14th.”

“It’s pi day,” Newt says. “As in the p-i form of pi. Big holiday for math geeks, right?”

Hermann continues to stare.

“Three-point-one-four,” Newt says. “March 14th. Three-slash-one-four.”

“One-four-slash-three,” Hermann corrects, “you heathen.” He tsks. “America’s rotted your brain. Pity.” 

“And England made you  _pretentious_ ,” Newt says.

Hermann sniffs. He slides his glasses back on and lifts up his pen, as if prepared to continue filling out his paperwork, and then sets it on the desk once more. “What exactly does pi day entail?”

 

At this point in Newt and Hermann’s careers with the PPDC, no one, frankly, gives a shit about what they do or where they go in the Shatterdome anymore. Newt’s not even sure if most people remember they’re still there. Whatever, it’s far from a bad thing–Newt’s got free range of all the fun garbage and contraband tech left for dead, and even better, free range of the kitchens whenever he likes. (He just had to promise the staff he’ll remember to lock up behind himself each time.) Today, Hermann’s his plus one for it all.

Newt’s quest through the mess hall fridges for pie proves fruitless, though he’s not sure why he expected otherwise. He’s undeterred. He finds some butter, some flour, eggs and sugar–and other general baking supplies–and then some somewhat bruised but still good apples. Homemade it is. “See if you can find a tin to put this all in,” he orders Hermann.

“Put what in?” Hermann says.

“The pie,” Newt says. He starts throwing stuff for the crust into a mixing bowl. He hasn’t baked in ages, not since he was still in his early twenties, but he mostly remembers what to do.  _Mostly_. “Is apple okay?”

Hermann nods. “May I help?”

Newt gestures to the pile of apples. “Go right ahead, dude.”

Hermann finds a knife in the myriad of cabinet drawers and begins to painstakingly peel each apple, then just as painstakingly slice them into exactly even eighths. “Too perfect,” Newt says. “Chop them up more.”

“Too  _perfect_ ,” Hermann scoffs, but he obeys, and with only minor grumbling about it not being a real holiday.

He cuts each of the eighths into halves. Then, in the time it takes Newt to finish kneading the pie crust and mold it to the shape of the tin, he halves those halves. They’re still a little  _too_ perfect, not nearly chaotic and varied enough (the way Newt likes it), but Newt can deal with it. “Cool,” Newt says. “Right, into the bowl,” he slides them off the cutting board and in with the filling mixture, “and–”

The pie comes out smelling horrific by the time it’s done; the apple-cinnamon-sugar filling, apparently, spilled over the sides and burnt on the bottom of the oven, as well as bubbled and concealed over the top crust. Smells horrific, and looks horrific. He sighs. “You want some, Hermann?” he says. He pokes the crust with a knife.

“Mm,” Hermann says, and wrinkles his nose. “Er. Not particularly.”

He’s got flour in his hair, on his cheeks, streaking the front of his sweater, even though Newt was the one in charge of all that shit. It’s absurdly adorable; Newt can’t help himself from stretching up on his tiptoes and pecking Hermann’s lips. “I don’t either,” he says, though he has to admit–judging by Hermann’s smile, the way he snags Newt’s wrist and reels him back in, it’s not a total waste.


	165. and they have sex by the way (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I have SUCH a thing for Hermann basically treating Newt as his own personal stress ball and honestly I think that the first kaiju war would've been easier on both of them if they'd known this. Breach calculations not cooperating? Time for Hermann to bury himself in Newt's chest. Funding gets cut? Hermann fucks Newt over his desk while squeezing his hips. Win-win.
> 
> Anonymous said: Hermann uses Newt’s lovely chub as a stress toy. Hermann had to deal with a bunch of idiots? Time to squeeze Newt’s butt. Hermann just got off the phone with his dad? Time to take a nap on Newt’s soft tummy. Hermann is cranky because people were rude to him? Time to settle in for an evening between Newt’s lovely thick thighs.
> 
> +ONE YEAR since "and they have sex by the way"

Newt never expected his wild fantasies of Fame and Notoriety to actually go anywhere, or to become remotely substantial in nature. They were fun, and they were great motivators (save the world, and you’ll be on the cover of Times magazine and Hermann will be  _begging_ you for your time, save the world, and you’ll never have to schmooze for funding again), but he never thought they’d evolve beyond being just that–wild fantasies. Then, of course, they  _did_. To a degree. No Times magazine, and no Hermann falling at his feet (Newt’s not sure he would’ve wanted that anyway), but they did have funding, they did have attention, and Hermann very much did have the time to shower Newt with attention.

Newt, to be quite frank, got tired of it all  _very_ quickly.

(Except the Hermann bit. Newt is very, very much a fan of Hermann showering him with attention.)

“How many more interviews do we have?” Newt sighs, not even bothering to take off his dress shoes before flopping down onto the hotel bed they’ve got for the night. The bed dips as Hermann, done up equally nice and fancy (he’s even done his hair), sits down next to him.

“Three,” Hermann says. “Oh–four. We’ve still got that video for Buzzfeed too.”

Newt groans into the bedspread, then rolls over and makes a face at Hermann. “I’m so  _tired_ ,” he says. All he really wants to do is order, like, a bunch of French fries via room service, take a long bath, and then ride Hermann’s dick until they’re both too tired to do anything but cuddle under the fancy bedsheets. That’s all Newt ever really wants to do, though, so it’s not really a new desire.

Hermann begins to stroke back his hair. Newt makes a sound like a happy cat and leans into the touch. “I know, my love,” Hermann says. “I’m tired too.” Probably even more tired than Newt. Hermann’s always preferred to stay in the shadows (so to speak), never  _too_  interested in having extravagant praise heaped upon him in any form save for the occasional approving nod from the Marshal. Hermann’s a stellar guy, really. Brilliant (and bitchy) but humble. It makes Newt super horny.

Hermann’s hand starts to creep lower, down to the open collar of Newt’s nice white button-up, where he’s knotted his usual scrap-of-fabric tie. Hermann’s tried to toss it out three times since last week, under the pretense of it being completely ridiculous. Whatever, Newt likes it, even if he  _did_ get it at Hot Topic when he was fifteen. “Tired,” Hermann says again, “and a little stressed.”

Newt’s lips curl up into a grin. He knows where this is headed. “ _Stressed_ ,” he says. “Really?”

Hermann’s deft, elegant fingers work open Newt’s tie. His buttons follow. A fingertip traces the column of his neck, his collarbone. “Mm,” Hermann says. “All those interviews, you know. Everyone wanting to know every minute little insignificant detail of our lives.” He spreads his fingers, palm down, across one of Newt’s pecs; Newt shuts his eyes and exhales sharply. “It takes a  _toll_  on a man.”

“Emotional?” Newt says. “Or physical?” He cracks an eye open. “Be a shame if you were too stressed to–”

“Certainly not to  _that_ extent,” Hermann says.

No,  _certainly_   _not_. Hermann’s got a libido for days. Even when his leg aches him too bad for him to do anything but lie there and pop some painkillers, he still gets a kick out of watching Newt put on a little show for him.

Newt doesn’t cave in and sit up and start kissing Hermann, like he knows Hermann wants him to. Playing hard to get and all. Then Hermann tweaks his nipple. “Newton,” he purrs.

“Uh-huh,” Newt gasps, and caves in.

 

Whenever Hermann was stressed back during the war–and Newt really did mean whenever, from minor inconveniences like being out of tea to coding errors that would take months to remedy–he would pull Newt into his lap and start squeezing him like a fucking stress ball or something. Anything from Newt’s ass to his thighs to his love handles was fair game. But Newt never really minded it. He loved it, actually. Especially when Hermann would decide it’d been a particularly  _long_ day and he didn’t just want to grope Newt for a bit. He wanted–needed–a bit more than that. Like now, after their horrible stressful experiences over the past two days of navigating the airport, hailing taxis, making  _small talk_ at a  _gala…_

“You’ve been lying your ass off,” Newt pants, referring, of course, to the many interviews they’ve given lately about Their Part in the War Effort. “All that bullshit about  _no breaks_ ,  _round the clock shifts._ What else did you say?  _All work no play_.”

Hermann, who’d been kneading his ass in a way Newt would deem pleasant, snorts. “I never once said that.”

“You implied it,” Newt says, and then he whines and rolls his hips down, arms beginning to tremble with the effort of propping himself up. “Oh,  _yes_ , baby, like that. Keep doing that.”

“Do it yourself,” Hermann says in wheezing laugh, but he digs his fingertips into the skin of Newt’s ass (hard enough, maybe, to leave some bruises, wouldn’t that be hot) and parts him just a bit wider, and Newt sinks down just a bit deeper. And that’s it, right there,  _that’s_ what Newt likes, Hermann screwing him nice and perfect while he’s holding Newt real tight and close. Fucking perfect.

“What the fuck was I talking about?” Newt moans.

“Er,” Hermann says. Sweat’s beading his brow, plastering his hair to his forehead. “Work?”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Yeah. What I’m saying is my ass basically won us the war. Kept you from cracking under all that strain.” If he wasn’t there for Hermann to fuck and squeeze like a little biologist-shaped toy (okay, and to, like, provide other facets of a loving relationship to Hermann), to keep him grounded, who knows if Hermann would’ve even made it past that very first year in Hong Kong? 

Hermann lets out a full-blown laugh at this.

“I’m serious,” Newt says, grinning. “You could start giving me some credit.”

Hermann reaches up and rubs at Newt’s nipple again, though he keeps one hand planted firmly on his ass. “Any suggestions on how to–oh, yes, darling–gracefully bring up that certain subject during the next one?”

Newt starts rocking his hips back and forth (pulling up so just the tip of Hermann is in him and then taking all of him back in, all one smooth, fluid motion that makes Newt see stars and Hermann’s eyes start to roll back). “Yep,” Newt says. A red flush is spreading down Hermann’s neck, all the way to his abdomen. “It was a lot of hard work for everyone involved,” he says, in the most professional, Hermann-esque voice he can muster. “And we had sex, by the way.”

“Frequently,” Hermann adds.

“Thoroughly,” Newt says. “Every day. There was not a single twenty-four hour period in which I, Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, did not stick my dick in Dr. Newton Geiszler at least once.”

“Typically,” Hermann stammers between deep grunts as he starts thrusting up into Newt, which Newt understands to mean he’s getting close, “typically more than once.”

“Hourly,” Newt agrees. “Imagine the headlines. World-saving scientists secret sex fiends! Newt Geiszler and Hermann Gottlieb are definitely banging!” His thighs have started shaking, too, along with his arms, and Hermann’s started letting out little whining  _ahs_  every time Newt bottoms out. “Prominent engineer Lars Gottlieb found dead of shock after estranged son exposed as rampant homosexual with a taste for  _biologists._ ”

Hermann immediately stops moving his hips. He makes a disgusted face, the sort of face Newt’s come to associate with any mention of his father whatsoever, but amped up by ten, and Newt thinks yeah, fair. “Newton, darling,” Hermann says. “Not while we’re making love.”

This drags a deep moan from Newt. “God, it’s so hot that you call it that.” He flattens himself against Hermann’s chest to kiss him, and Hermann responds enthusiastically.


	166. hermann texting newt to bang (implied nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Okay okay can you visualize Hermann getting equally horny during a meeting or lecture and having to desperately text Newton to arrange a tryst (his words not Newton's) and Newton's brain alarms are blaring like THIS IS NOT A DRILL REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

Newt was the one who told Hermann to cut the meeting and stay home with him in the first place, so he’s not feeling all that sympathetic towards the guy now that he’s–presumably–bored out of his mind and regretting his decision. That’s the only reason he can think of as to why Hermann is currently blowing up his phone with text after text. And he knows it’s not an emergency: Hermann strictly calls during emergencies. Besides, he can see emojis on the screen from here. Hermann only uses emojis when he  _really_ wants attention.

Newt sighs, pauses the movie on his laptop, and reaches across to where his phone is plugged into the wall a foot or so away.  _What are you doing?_ says Hermann’s last text. It’s preceded, of course, by a long series of complaints, ranging everywhere from declaring that Newt was right to try to talk him out of it to wishing everyone would hurry up and  _finish_ already.

 _nothing_ , Newt texts back.  _you miss me_?

 _Terribly._ Then:  _What are you doing?_

_watching a movie :p_

There’s a short pause.  _what are you wearing?_

Oh–interesting. Newt looks down at himself. Sweatpants. Ugly old t-shirt. Chip crumbs all over both. A single sock, the other lost somewhere in the tangle of his blankets. But he has a feeling he knows what Hermann wants to hear, so he replies with  _nothing ;)_

_fancy a tryst at the men’s toilets to the left of the conference room?_

Newt’s got his jeans and boots on in a flash, and, as an afterthought, brushes the chip crumbs off his shirt.

Hermann’s not in the men’s room, it turns out, when Newt books it to that section of the Shatterdome and peeps inside with a half-whispered “ _Hermann_!” Nor is he anywhere within sight down either side of the long, stretching hallways. Newt’s just beginning to consider stumbling into the conference room and declaring that he needs Hermann for Top Secret K-Sci reasons so they can bang in his quarters instead when Hermann’s head suddenly pokes out from a nearby janitor’s closet. “Newton,” he hisses.

Perfect. “Hi, honey,” Newt says. Hermann grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him inside.

“Jesus,” Newt gasps, as he’s suddenly being pressed against the cinderblock wall and what feels like several mops and a broom. Hermann’s hands are already wriggling up his shirt, his tongue already poking into Newt’s mouth, and Newt’s already gone weak at the knees. It’s hot, because it’s Hermann, but it’s also a little weird, because it’s pitch fucking black in here and he can barely see him. (Those are definitely Hermann’s hands, though, Hermann’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, Hermann’s big wide mouth moving and sliding over his own.) “I thought you had a  _meeting_.”

“I did,” Hermann murmured, “but it was dreadfully boring, and my mind…wandered.”

“To me?” Newt says.

“Mm. Doesn’t it always?” Hermann shucks Newt’s t-shirt off and throws it over his shoulder, somewhere Newt’s pretty sure will take him a long, long time to find it again. He sticks his tongue back into Newt’s mouth, which Newt is a fan of, but he pulls away after barely any time. “You taste…” he begins, hesitantly, “…salty.”

“I just ate lunch,” Newt says, thinking of the Family Sized bag of salt and vinegar potato chips currently lying crumpled beneath his bed.

Hermann lets out a little huff of amusement against Newt’s mouth. He definitely knows. Whatever–like Hermann’s daily diet consists of anything more than black coffee and chalk dust. “I hope you at least had some protein,” he says.

Newt flips them to press Hermann against the wall instead; he hears Hermann’s cane clatter to the floor. “Don’t worry,” he says, and drops to his knees. He flicks Hermann’s zipper open gracefully. “I’m about to eat some meat.”

Hermann dissolves into giggles. There’s a little whoosh of air as he clamps his hand over his mouth to quiet himself. “Oh, hush,” he says, voice muffled, “or we’ll be found.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you texted me, you horny bastard,” Newt says. He pats Hermann’s ankle. “Now keep quiet.”


	167. newt has a bad day, hermann cheers him up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I just love everything you write!! Would you be interested in doing something with Hermann taking care of/cheering Newt up with ice cream and blankets? <3
> 
> Anonymous said: prompt - newt is having a bad day. hermann notices this and tries to get his stubborn husband to take it easy but to no avail. he finds newt later in his office half-asleep with tears streaming down his cheeks. he gets newt home, swaddles him in his own pajamas because newt loves them, and cuddles him in blankets. hermann takes to being the big spoon for the night because it’s obvious newt needs the extra comfort right now. what happens in between, before, or after is up to your brilliant mind!

A decade or so of marriage to Newton Geiszler has given Hermann far greater insights into the man’s emotional states than he ever anticipated. This is not to say that he was  _bad_ at reading Newton before–that decade or so of marriage was pre-dated by many, many years crammed into a laboratory together, after all–but there’s something to be said for knowing each other in the far more intimate setting that marriage entails.

When Newton wakes early, for example (and then pecks small kisses across Hermann until he wakes, too), it means he’s in a good mood; when he sleeps in late and has to be roused by Hermann, it means he’s upset or anxious over something. One cup of coffee, humming as he dresses, wearing mis-matching socks–all good signs as well. Then there are more specific moods. When Newton wants to be kissed (a strictly different mood than from when he wants to do the kissing, which is when he merely gets  _handsy_ ) he’ll trail after Hermann or run small errands around the house for him until Hermann relents. Not that it’s any great chore to kiss his husband. When Newton wants to do something  _more_ than kissing, he’ll steal and waltz around in one of Hermann’s sweaters or some other obvious article of his clothing.

Then there are Newt’s Bad Moods.

When Newton’s in one of his Bad Moods–the capitals warranted–he sleeps in late, wears his oldest sweatshirt to his lectures at the university, leaves his hair a genuine mess (a notable difference from an artful and deliberate mess), and, rather than popping into Hermann’s office one floor above for lunch as usual, will take it in his own office instead. If he even bothers to eat at all and doesn’t simply fall asleep there. On days like these, the instant Hermann notices the warning signs, he does his hardest to convince Newton to take it easy–to call in sick, to plan on leaving early, to let Hermann take on lecturing one of his classes for him (Hermann’s done it before, and he doesn’t doubt he’ll one day do it again)–but Newton never listens. Of course he never listens.

Newton’s office is where Hermann finds him now: sweatshirt hood pulled up all the way, head pillowed on his hands atop his desk, tears trekking their way slowly down his cheeks. His eyes are closed behind his glasses, but he blinks awake when Hermann touches his shoulder, so he can’t have been sleeping very deeply. “Newton,” Hermann says, quietly. “Let’s get you home, hm?”

Newton swipes across one eye, then he other. He sits up. “I still have a class at five,” he says, voice thick.

“I’ve already sent out an email for you and cancelled it,” Hermann says, and pats Newton’s back. Newton’s students recognize Hermann’s email without problem by now, which probably says a great deal about Newt and Hermann’s level of mild co-dependence, but this is not something Hermann intends to examine at the moment. “Stand, Newton. Come on.”

He  _gently_ manhandles Newton into the passenger’s side of their beat-up old car once he gets him out of his office and in the parking lot. He adjusts as many heating vents as possible to aim them directly at him and plays a station on the radio he knows Newton likes and offers a very basic run-down of his own day. Newton says nothing, merely leans against the window and watches street lamps and sidewalks zoom past, but he’s stopped the quiet, wet sniffling that meant he was crying. Small victories.

(Part of the key of helping Newton through his Bad Moods is talking about everything but the Moods and their causes themselves, Hermann’s learned.)

He debates shoving Newton into the shower to warm him up when they make it home, but ultimately decides on doing it manually. Newton’s sweatshirt and jeans are discarded to the hamper, his boots to their usual spot behind the bedroom door, and Hermann sacrifices his softest pair of pajamas so that Newton may wrap himself in them instead. (He greatly prefers Hermann’s pajamas to his own.) Once Newton’s buttoned them and hiked up the cuffs of the legs, Hermann pushes him onto the edge of their bed and joins him. “You’re being bossy,” Newton says.

Hermann hooks his cane on the nightstand and bends over to unlace his shoes, one at a time. When he’s finished, he strips down to his briefs and undershirt. “Lie back,” he orders, and he expects Newton to give him some grief or whine a bit more, but he huffs and obeys without another word. 

He sags against Hermann when Hermann wriggles up behind him, wraps him in his arms, and tugs the bedspread over them both, though, so Hermann doesn’t imagine he has any real hard feelings. Then Newton shakes for a bit, which means he’s started crying again. Hermann expected this. “It’s alright, my love,” Hermann says, soft and gentle, and noses against the back of Newton’s neck. He squeezes Newton’s arm, just as gentle. Newton gives a watery laugh.

“I’m being such a baby,” Newton says. “I don’t even know why I’m  _sad_.”

“You’re  _not_  a baby,” Hermann says, and kisses his husband’s collarbone. Newton sniffles. “And you’re quite allowed to be sad.” Hermann has bad days, too–maybe not as bad as Newton’s, but he still wants to be coddled by Newton, still wants to ignore everything that isn’t Newton. Newton never fails to care for him in return.

But Newton does not accept this as an answer. He fidgets, trying to turn in Hermann’s arms (presumably to protest and glare and throw a general fit), and Hermann holds fast. “But–” Newton begins.

“No,” Hermann says, though not as firmly as he intended. It works; Newton stops apologizing, and simply allows himself to be held. After some time, his tears subside, too, leaving him merely sniffling. Then that quiets too.

“I forgot to eat lunch,” he says. “I left it in my office.”

Hermann kisses his collarbone again. “We’ll order pizza for dinner,” he says. He’s not good in the kitchen without Newton’s assistance, anyway.

"Cool,” Newton says. He hums a little. “Kinda want some ice cream too.”

“Whatever you’d like,” Hermann says.

“Cool,” Newton says again. Then, after some time, “I really love you, Hermann.”

Hermann tips his head back by his chin and gives him a proper kiss.


	168. sickfic: hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> coming with a sickfic question/suggestion for ya... who's the worse patient, hermann "grumbly" gottlieb or newton "it's fine" geiszler?

Newt’s really opposed to the idea of leaving Hermann home alone for a multitude of reasons. It’s the weekend, after all, which means it should be  _their_ weekend  _together_ , no work or other distractions from Thursday at 8:30pm ‘til Monday at 10am, just three nights and three full days of Newt and Hermann Time. All he really wants to do is curl up on the couch with Hermann, or curl up in bed with Hermann, or curl up on Hermann’s lap, or have Hermann curl up on his lap and watch bad movies. Or watch bad TV. Or have Hermann read to him and play with his hair. Really, you know, Newt’s not that picky, he just really digs his husband.

Mostly, though, he doesn’t want to leave Hermann home alone because the poor guy is sick. Probably picked it up from campus. Newt woke up Friday morning at the gorgeously late hour of eleven, with sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, and rolled over to pester-slash-kiss Hermann awake, only to find Hermann a) already awake and b) fever-hot, shivering, and blinking hazily at Newt with a noticeable air of misery.

Newt jumped into action in seconds.

A long kiss to Hermann’s forehead half-confirmed his suspicion of fever, while the thermometer (a few moments later) confirmed it entirely. He got Hermann water, fished out the Motrin bottle from behind their respective prescriptions in the medicine cabinet, forced Hermann to take some, got Hermann  _more_ water, fretted over his blankets for ten minutes, until finally Hermann–weakly–held up a hand and said “Please calm down.” Which was rich coming from Hermann, who’s the drama queen of all drama queens, the guy who cradled Newt in his arms like Newt was on his fucking deathbed when Newt twisted his ankle in an ill-advised attempt to test out Heelys around the kitchen breakfast bar. The guy who lies in bed and groans with a hand flung across his forehead for hours like an ailing protagonist from an 18th century novel when he has so much as a cold.

That was three hours ago. Now, Hermann’s insisting on sending Newt out to the  _grocery store_ , of all places. In the rain. The cold rain.

“But what if you need more water,” Newt says, twisting the hem of his t-shirt, “or more medicine, or–”

“I can manage on my own for half an hour or so,” Hermann says huffily. It’s lose-lose with sick Hermann, really; if Newt coddles him, he’s pissy, if Newt  _doesn’t_  coddle him, he’s pissy. Basically, he’ll be pissy whether Newt goes to the store or stays behind. 

Hermann beckons him closer, and Newt plops down onto the edge of the bed and leans in, close, and expectantly. Perhaps a little too expectantly. Hermann makes a face, and says, grouchily, “I’m  _not_  kissing you when I’m ill, darling. What on earth are you thinking?”

“Habit,” Newt sighs, truthfully a little disappointed. Hermann huffs, rolls his eyes, and then reaches and pat Newt’s cheek gently. His palm is warm, which is wildly unsettling. Hermann usually runs so cold. Still: Newt appreciates the gesture. “ _Only_ half an hour,” Newt says. It’s for an important cause, anyway, for  _Hermann_ : they need more ibuprofen, more food that Hermann can stomach (saltines, and light soup, Gatorade, maybe, Newt’s dad used to give him Gatorade when Newt got sick), maybe some tissues and cough drops, too. Hermann is only letting out the gentlest little coughs at the moment and hasn’t sneezed once, but you can never be too careful. 

Newt pulls on his jacket, snatches up the car keys, and is out the door in the flash. Thirty minutes. He can do it. (He’ll get Hermann something fun, too, something to look forward to once he’s feeling better. Like ice cream. Or those dumb chocolate tea biscuits from the international food aisle that Hermann used to have to specially order when they were in Hong Kong.)

Newt calls Hermann from the snack aisle fifteen minutes later, four packs of the chocolate cookies clutched in his fist. “I can’t find the saltines,” he declares. 

There’s a little rustling of blankets on the other end of the phone, like Hermann’s sitting up, and a little cough. “They’re in aisle nine,” Hermann says, “not aisle eight.”

Hermann can really read his mind sometimes. It’s weird, but it’s also kind of romantic. Newt ducks into the next aisle, where–lo and behold–the saltines (and the other crackers and pretzels) are stocked. “God, babe, you’re a genius,” Newt sighs. He tosses the cookies and a few boxes of saltines into the basket.

He can almost hear Hermann preen through the phone, but he’s all back to bossy business in a second. “Have you gotten the soup?” he says. “The kind I like?”

“Yep,” Newt says. He pokes around in the basket, past Hermann’s favored canned chicken noodle with noodles shaped like little stars and rocket ships. (Hermann is ridiculously adorable.) “And the meds, cough drops, tissues…” Hermann coughs again, but louder, a terrible raspy thing, and Newt’s heart twists. His poor husband. All alone at home, without Newt there to take care of him. “Hermann,” he says, verbal inventory forgotten instantly. He cradles his phone sadly, like Hermann would be able to feel the touch, somehow. “Aw. Honey, I miss you.” 

“Then hurry home already,” Hermann says. Then, moderately softer (though his voice is still raspy), “I miss you, too.”

Newt speeds through the self-checkout so fast he almost leaves his bags behind. He’s back at Hermann’s side, and contentedly playing nurse as Hermann huffs and sighs and groans, within the promised half-hour.


	169. snippet of "newt and hermann make a porno" (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Totally someone anonymous prompting you here cause I might really wanna see even a few sentences from you about those two bois trying to shoot smut for side monies and then eventually falling for each other 😍
> 
> LMFAO ok so for the unaware a couple months ago i was like “au where newt and hermann film some pornos to make funding on the side but theyre dumbasses who refuse to admit theyre actually into each other so its just a lot of pining WHILE banging” on my side twit and like, god is it a fun concept. so heres a little bit that, when i have the time and inspo, i’ll probably make into something longer lol

“It’s nothing weird, you know,” Newt says. “Just two guys–two  _friends_ –who dig other guys making a little extra money.” Super necessary extra money. Newt hasn’t been able to run a successful experiment in weeks. “It’s the same as opening an Etsy shop or something.”

“Are we friends?” Hermann remarks mildly.

“Of course we are,” Newt says, with a little laugh. “We’re best friends. Uh. Right?”

“Hm,” Hermann says. He still seems highly skeptical, but he finishes rolling on his condom and tosses the little foil wrapper aside without another word. He pats his thighs in invitation; Newt straddles them, bringing his face within inches of Hermann’s. Very up-close and personal. They’re only going to get more so. “Is the camera on?”

“Yep,” Newt says, but he squints over his shoulder to double check. The little red light is blinking steadily. Same with the one set up to the right of the bed. “Good to go.” He can feel the warmth of Hermann’s breath on his face, and then Hermann’s hand, sliding carefully up the back of his leg.

The tiniest little moan slips, unbidden, through Newt’s lips.

(This was a bad idea. This was a very bad idea.)

“Ah,” Hermann says, suddenly very pink in the face. “Yes. Well. Shall we?”

Newt nods. Hermann produces a small, unopened bottle of lube from his nightstand and pops the lid open. He starts to pour some on his fingers. Then he hesitates. “Er. Would you rather do it? I’m not sure what’s best for…” He nods at the camera.

Hermann seems a little lost, more so than what their circumstances might naturally inspire. Newt wonders, not for the first time, if Hermann’s a virgin. Not that that has any real meaning (just a dumb standard placed on them by society, and all), but he’d still feel kind of…bad, if this was Hermann’s first time doing anything. A little guilty. Stuck doing it with Newt, and not even in a situation that meaningful. Newt can at least make it easy, he supposes.

Newt takes the lube from him carefully. “I got it,” he says, though he’s truthfully a little disappointed he won’t be getting those long, elegant fingers up inside him. “Just–say dumb porno stuff while I do it.” He pours the lube onto his fingers, then makes sure his ass is at the proper angle to be on full display for the camera.

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, man,” Newt says, and then his breath hitches a little as he starts to breach himself with his index finger. “Be creative.”

“Oh,” Hermann says. Newt taps Hermann’s chest (bare and well-toned) with his free hand, and Hermann’s back hits the headboard easily.

He says absolutely nothing while Newt works himself open, merely clenches onto Newt’s thighs in an iron grip and breathes heavily. That means it’s up to Newt to put on a show (though he’s pretty sure they’ll edit this part out in the end anyway). “I can’t wait for you to fuck me,” he declares.

Hermann’s whole body seizes up. “Oh?” he says again, but moderately more surprised.

“I can’t wait to feel your big dick up inside me,” Newt continues, and then wonders if  _dick_ is the sexiest word he could have chosen. Cock? Seems almost  _too_ vulgar. Then again, this is porn. “I’m, uh, gonna ride it  _really hard_.”

Hermann says nothing. He looks dazed. He’s blushing. He’s also very, very  _hard._

“Call me a slut or something,” Newt hisses at him, but he still does  _nothing_. Just stares at Newt with those wide eyes. Useless.


	170. touch-starved/needy herm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Omg! Love your work! Do you think you could ever do another installment of touch starved hermann?? 💕

Most mornings these days, Hermann wakes Newt with a kiss. A long series of kisses, actually. Often little whispers of Newt’s name. Always with wandering hands. Usually, Newt doesn’t open his eyes right away; usually, he allows himself to be content in Hermann’s arms with Hermann’s little touches, his feather-like brushes of kisses, until Hermann finally sees his smile (because he can never stop himself from smiling) and and kisses the corner of that, instead, and chastises him for sleeping in late. (They have important work in the lab, after all.)

Today, as with most mornings, Newt wakes to a warm, heavy weight over his back (Hermann was the big spoon last night), an arm over his waist, and Hermann’s lips moving from the back of his neck, to the joint of neck and shoulder, to his shoulder, then back up again in a steady, pleasing cycle. The blankets are tangled around their knees, probably kicked there by Newt during the night. “Newton,” Hermann murmurs.

“Good morning,” Newt says, and then shuts his eyes as Hermann’s hand (large, elegant) slides up his shirt. “Oh–don’t stop that. That’s nice.”

“Mm,” Hermann says in agreement.

Newt turns in Hermann’s arms and kisses him for real, soft and chaste. Hermann, of course, deepens it immediately. Morning breath be damned, apparently. The hand under Newt’s shirt travels lower, down to one of Newt’s sides, and starts kneading insistently at his love handle. Hermann’s lips slide to his jaw, scratchy with overnight stubble. He doesn’t seem to care. “I  _just_ woke up,” Newt laughs, because, really,  _already?_

“Mm, and I’ve been awake for some time.” Hermann nips at the skin of his throat; Newt lets out a shaky breath. Hermann nudges him with his knee. “Touch me, darling, won’t you.”

Hermann loves touching Newt like this in the mornings–soft, lazy, needy–but more than anything he loves Newt touching  _him_. Newt suspects that that’s, really, Hermann’s secret plot behind this. Touch Newt just enough that he’s inspired to give as good in return. Newt wouldn’t mind it, frankly, if that’s the case. He knows Hermann has his own issues with touch–he knows just how badly Hermann needsit. “Of course,” he says, and he wriggles one arm under Hermann to wrap him fully in both. Hermann sighs pleasantly.

Newt traces his fingertips over the planes of Hermann’s back (bare; he hadn’t bothered redressing after they had sex last night, too lazy to move, unlike Newt), over his shoulderblades, down over the near-nonexistent swell of his ass. Hermann touches him similarly. All innocent, no matter where, all gentle and light. Then Hermann plucks at the waistband of Newt’s boxers in a way that’s decidedly  _not_ innocent.

“Off,” he says, and then squeezes Newt’s ass.

“Dude,” Newt laughs.

“ _Off_ ,” Hermann declares. “We have thirty-three minutes before we’re meant to be in the lab and I intend and enjoy every single one of them.”

Newt shucks his boxers and t-shirt off before Hermann draws him back into his arms, chest-to-chest, skin-on-skin. “Can I brush my teeth first, at least?” Newt says, half-joking, but Hermann’s rocking against him in a way that Newt takes to mean  _no_. “Alright,” he sighs in defeat, but he’s grinning wide. He mock-tsks. “Handsy.” Hermann pinches his thigh.

“Bit more,” Hermann murmurs. Newt runs his fingers up through the back of Hermann’s hair, and Hermann’s eyes flicker shut.

“Like that?” Newt says.

Hermann nods. He presses his face against Newt’s chest. “Newton,” he sighs happily, as Newt continues to stroke his hair, “Newton, Newton–”

They don’t end up having sex as Newt thought they would, but it’s nice just holding each other, really.


	171. neighbors newt and hermann sequel (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> newts-geiszler asked:  
> MARIA, MY QUEEN, COULD YOU PRETTY PLEASE WRITE A HORNY SEQUEL TO YOUR CUTE WONDERFUL DELIGHTFUL NEIGHBORS AU FICLET. I WOULD LOVE YOU FOREVER (ALTHOUGH I ALREADY DO SO...)

The arrangement that follows Newton’s rainy afternoon spent,  _very_ cozily, in Hermann’s flat (and, more specifically, in Hermann’s bed in Hermann’s flat) is greatly pleasing to both parties involved, and in all, Hermann congratulates himself on a wise decision. On shared mornings off, Hermann will take his coffee, as always, and Newton will do his stretches, as always, and once they are both finished–once Hermann is sufficiently aroused from watching those marvelously short shorts cling to Newton’s ass in very interesting ways–Newton will hop over the railing and into Hermann’s lap and they’ll kiss and fool around a bit.

It’s…foreplay, is all. Completely natural.

“How was your week?” Newton calls to him over his shoulder today, palms flat on his yoga mat, ass held up high in the air in a pose that surely can’t be meant to be anything but a method of distracting Hermann. (It’s working.) He’s in the same white tank-top as always, but he’s chosen a pair of bright green shorts today. Hermann likes them quite a lot.

“It was alright,” Hermann says back. He stirs a small packet of sugar–liberated from some eating establishment however long back–into his cup of coffee. “I made some new progress in my research.”

“Sweet,” Newton says. He spreads his thighs, ass going up higher, and lets out a small grunt. “I, uh, had my students dissect frogs yesterday. I thought of you.”

Hermann narrows his eyes. “Why is that?” he says, sharply.

Newton, face upside down between his legs, glasses slid up almost to his hairline, grins cheekily. “No reason.” He lifts up one leg, sets it back down, then lifts up the other. He’s strangely more out of breath than usual, and sweatier, too, and more flushed, as if he’s exerting himself terribly in some oppressive heat, though it’s overcast and quite breezy and he’s doing only only some minor stretching. Then Newton switches to a sitting position instead, and he winces and makes a minuscule little noise that piques Hermann’s curiosity. This is because, in fact, it isn’t merely any little noise–it’s the sort that Hermann’s become an expert at coaxing from Newton. 

Perhaps Newton intends a quicker seduction than usual. Hermann will just have to tease him a bit in return. He carefully folds up his book and sets it alongside his mug. “Newton,” he says. He pats his knee. “Why don’t you finish up over here?”

Newton’s all too-eager to oblige. He tosses over his yoga mat over to Hermann’s balcony first first (narrowly avoiding Hermann’s coffee, careless little man) and follows with a tiny  _oof_ , then immediately gets on his knees in front of Hermann. “By finish up,” he says, cheeky grin back in place, and he reaches for Hermann’s belt buckle, “do you mean you want me to–”

“–finish your stretches, yes,” Hermann says. He sits back and swats Newton away. “Do go on. I can wait.”

“Asshole,” Newton sighs, but he turns to face away from Hermann. He picks up his stretches where he left off, ass up in the air and inches from Hermann (close enough for Hermann to scarcely need to stretch out to touch), though with far more  _thrusting back_ than there’d been before. More labored breathing, too. Hermann’s trousers are growing tight.

He does reach out, carefully, and curls one hand around Newton’s left hip, then the other around Newton’s upper right thigh. Newton freezes. “Carry on,” Hermann murmurs. “Just ignore me.” He squeezes Newton’s thigh.

Newton shivers. “C’mon,” he says, “can’t we just–”

Hermann draws the hand back from Newton’s thigh and pats his ass chidingly. Newton squeaks. “Finish your stretches,” Hermann orders.

Hermann keeps two firm hands on Newton and squeezes and kneads away to his heart’s content as Newton (always so good) obeys him. His little gasping grunts grow in volume; Hermann can see him digging his teeth into his bottom lip, the red flush rising steadily higher. Hermann spreads his own legs and, gently, tugs Newton back until his ass is snug against the front of Hermann’s tented trousers.

Newton outright moans. “Horny bastard.”

“Mm,” Hermann says, and his eyes flutter shut as Newton rubs against him. He smooths his palm over one of the nicely round cheeks, up and under Newton’s tank top to settle on his strong, sweat-damp back. “You put on a marvelous show.” He rubs himself on Newton, this time, keeping it slow and deliberate and teasing. “It’s hardly my fault.”

Newton’s arms are shaking. He presses his face tight to his yoga mat. “Keep doing that,” he pants, voice muffled.

“You’re  _very_ wound up,” Hermann says. “Have you done something–?  _Oh_.” He’s rubbed his fingers over the cleft of Newt’s tight shorts and, to his surprise, felt something small and hard and smooth. A little plug. He pushes on it; Newton moans again, louder and his arms threaten to give out. “Oh, Newton,” Hermann says, delightedly, working over the plug through the shorts, “you didn’t.”

“Course I did,” Newton pants out. “S’good?”

“Very good,” Hermann says. He rubs his thumb over it. “Shall I…?”

“ _Yeah._ Do it like this,” Newton begs, “like this, that’s hot, that’s really hot. Yeah.”

“Exhibitionist,” Hermann teases, but they are high up and quite out of sight on their conjoined balconies, so he frees himself from his slacks and pulls Newton’s shorts down. The little pink plug is swiftly removed; Newton, whining needily, still propping himself up on his elbows and knees, begins lazily working himself back and forth on Hermann’s prick; Hermann shuts his eyes and enjoys the sensations. “Lovely,” he praises, “that’s  _wonderful_ , Newton, yes, yes.”

 

(“My thighs hurt like  _shit_ ,” Newton complains later, wrapped comfortably in Hermann’s arms.)


	172. sleepy, kind, affectionate herm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> we know much about touch starved hermann but have we ever considered highly sleep deprived, exceptionally sassy/kind (choose your fighter) hermann?

As a general rule, Hermann cares a little more about himself than Newt does–enough to put protein in his body, occasionally, to eat crap that isn’t prepackaged dessert cakes for breakfast–but that sure as hell doesn’t extend to sleep. He sleeps less than Newt, somehow. He’s there in the evenings, when Newt hangs up his headlamp and throws out his gloves and calls it a night, and he’s there in the mornings, when Newt’s dressed and (sometimes) showered and done up his hair with the appropriate amount of gel. It’s due to a lot of factors, probably. Anxiety with a side of insomnia. Hermann’s hip, the pain in which often flares up and makes it difficult for him to fall asleep. The simple fact that, while Newt obviously loves his work, Hermann (with his equations that he places the weight of the world on) is downright  _obsessive_  about his.

The point: Hermann never sleeps. Hermann didn’t sleep last night, either, to the extent that he’s very nearly nodding off at his desk. Normally, Newt would’ve herded him off to his bed by now, plucked off his dorky little shoes and his blazer and practically barricaded in Hermann’s door, but he’s busy himself, so he doesn’t notice something’s amiss until it’s way past midnight.

What clues him in is the distinctly  _jarring_ experience of arms suddenly finding their way around his waist and a chin suddenly resting on his shoulder and the very distinct smell of Hermann’s favored blend of tea. Newt startles and drops his scalpel. It clangs onto his workbench, metal reverberating on metal. “Hermann?” he squeaks.

“Mm,” Hermann says, to the left of Newt’s ear, breath puffing warm and gentle and, somewhat, pleasant.

Newt shivers. He fidgets. He blushes. “Hermann,” he tries again.

Hermann taps his fingers on Newt’s hip. He breathes in deeply. “Yes, Newton?”

“What are ya, uh,” he pokes at Hermann’s hand, “doing there, buddy?”

“You’re warm,” Hermann says. “And soft.” His noses into Newt’s neck. After a few moments, Newt feels a tiny, feather-light kiss pressed to his collarbone through his shirt.

Oh, wow.

“Oh, wow,” Newt says.

It’s not unheard of for Hermann to kiss Newt, nor is it unheard of for Hermann to touch Newt and wrap Newt in his arms like this, but usually it’s either proceeded or preceded by something a little more…intimate. Them going at it in one of their beds. It’s one of the rare times Hermann allows himself to get all touchy-feely, one of the rare times he pulls down those walls and unbuttons that collar and just  _loosens up_ a bit. Newt’s not sure what brought this fit on, but frankly, he’s into it. He does wish it was at a slightly less inconvenient moment, though. “Alright, Herm,” he says. He pats Hermann’s hand this time. Hermann hums happily. He presses another little kiss. “How about we get you on over to the couch, okay?”

He does get Hermann onto the couch, but with no small amount of difficulty–Hermann’s left his cane at his chalkboard, and he clings to Newt like a needy rag doll and takes him down with him–and Hermann refuses to let go of him when Newt tries to get back to his feet. “Dude,” Newt says, “I got a dissection to finish up, can you–”

Hermann pulls Newt down on top of him entirely. “You work yourself so hard,” he mumbles, clutching onto the back of Newt’s shirt.

“And you don’t?” Newt laughs. “Dirty hypocrite.” Hermann’s left his glasses on, and they’ve slid up, ridiculously high, to his hairline, librarian chain steadily pressing a red line into his cheek. Newt slips them off carefully and sets them on the cluttered side table; Hermann blinks owlishly at him. “I’m still here,” Newt assures him with a little grin. Hermann’s ridiculously far-sighted. 

Hermann sighs contentedly and presses Newt’s head to his chest, and Newt gets an eyeful of worn wool sweatervest, and his own glasses make a worrying creaking noise. Hermann doesn’t notice. Dude’s got a grip like steel. “You looked very handsome today,” Hermann says.

Newt laughs again, but it comes out muffled. “Thanks,” he says.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you all day,” Hermann says. “You’ve been terribly distracting.” He rubs his fingers in a little circle on Newt’s back. Newt relaxes, just a bit. Resisting a cuddly Hermann is a losing battle. “Sweet man,” Hermann says, in another slurring mumble.

God, Hermann’s cute. Newt smiles. “Take a little nap, okay, dude?” he says. He manages to struggle up onto his elbows. Hermann’s eyes have drifted shut.

“Mmhmm,” Hermann says. He cracks open one eyelid. “Stay, won’t you?”

“’Course,” Newt says, and, figuring he has nothing to lose, snuggles back into Hermann’s chest. If he whispers something that might sound suspiciously like  _love you_ , Hermann’ll be none the wiser.


	173. pride!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bisexualducknewton asked:  
> newmann at pride...

“Stop fidgeting,” Newt says.

“It’s hard  _not_  to fidget,” Hermann says, “when you’re–” He bats Newt’s hand away and makes a terrifically bitchy face. “You’re going to make me  _sneeze_.”

“I’ll literally be done in five seconds,” Newt snaps. “Jesus, can you just–”

He swoops back in with the small paintbrush; Hermann is ready for him, and knocks it away again. It lands, instead, on the floor, leaving, in its wake, a bright red splotch on the nice new hardwood and Hermann even bitchier than before. “Now look what you’ve done,” Hermann says, mournfully.

Newt grits his teeth. He counts to ten. He turns on the charm.

“C’mon, honey,” he says. He scoots across the floor on his knees, right up against where Hermann sits–obstinate, arms crossed–and flutters his eyelashes. “It’s just facepaint.” He paints to the flag he painted on his own cheek. “We’ll  _match_.” Hermann stiffens further. Newt places a single kiss on the end of Hermann’s nose. He presses another kiss on Hermann’s lips, then at the corner of his mouth. “Hermannnnn.”

Hermann pink-faced and flustered by the time he finally deflates with a little sigh. “Fine,” he says, and lowers his arms like it’s some great sacrifice. “Do what you will.”

Newt snatches the paintbrush back up with a little laugh of triumph, dips it back into the red paint, and paints a line across Hermann’s cheek. Orange goes under it. Then yellow. Green. Blue. Hermann doesn’t stop fidgeting until Newt finishes out the rainbow with purple and plants another kiss directly onto the opposite cheek. “There,” Newt says, and sits back to admire his handiwork. “Looking handsome.”

Hermann wrinkles his nose.

Newt shakes his bag of body glitter (bright silver, in the shape of minuscule stars) ominously. “Can I put some of this on you?”

“Absolutely not,” Hermann says quickly, leaning away and casting Newt a wary look. Newt guesses he’s already pretty festive, between the little flag freshly-applied to his cheek, his hand-knitted rainbow sweatervest (which he’s gotta be hot in), and the flag button pinned to his lapel, and decides he’ll let it slide. More glitter for Newt, which is fine by him. 

The walk to the right street isn’t bad, pretty short, actually, and Hermann declines Newt’s offer of toting along a lawn chair in favor of–so he explains–simply leaning on Newt if he starts to feel tired. Also fine by Newt. “They should stick you up on a float next year,” Newt muses as they watch a few go by. He bought an ice cream cone from a little truck on their way here (one scoop of Newt’s favorite, one scoop of Hermann’s, but really, their favorites are a bit jumbled these days), and he offers it out to Hermann now; Hermann takes some with a pleased hum.

“A float?” he says. “What for?”

“Gay math king, or something like that. I don’t know,” Newt says. He licks the cone, then tilts it back to Hermann, who promptly gets some on his nose. “We could make you a little cape. And a crown. Hang on, I got it–” He takes the cone into the hand he’s linked with Hermann, reaches into the pocket of Hermann’s ugly knee-length shorts for his handkerchief–Hermann’s hands being occupied, one with his cane, one with Newt’s hand, and now the cone as well–and rubs the ice cream off his nose for him. 

“Thank you, love,” Hermann says, and graces him with a small kiss to his cheek, which makes their glasses clack together and leaves Hermann coated in no small amount of glitter. Newt decides not to say anything about it. It’s kind of a cute look. He returns the handkerchief and takes the ice cream cone back. “Why am I the math king?”

“Why wouldn’t you be? Or, I guess, who else would be?”

“I merely question the relevance,” Hermann says.

“Well,” Newt says. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you being the math king, so it’s kind of relevant. Oh, shit–!” He drops Hermann’s hand to catch a few strings of beads, flung out from one of the floats. He manages to snag two. “Here,” he says, and places one necklace around Hermann’s neck, and the other around his own, over top his gaudy feather boa.

In his excitement, he drops the ice cream cone, too, right on his shoe. “Aw, no.”

“I’ll buy you another,” Hermann says, gazing at Newt with big, soft, and inexpressibly fond eyes, and he reels Newt in by his plastic necklace and kisses him sweetly. 


	174. chubby newt + lingerie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zgirlly asked:  
> So, dont know if you'll even have any interest in this but. I've been reading some chubby newt stuff and some crossdressing newt stuff. And I like both quite alot. The problem I have is lots of crossdressing Newt fics have him in a corset, which messes up the chubby newt thing. So just... chubby newt wearing on of those teddy's with the split up the center of the shirt, basically framing his tummy in lace? Full on stockings garters lacy panties etc as well. But, must not disguise the tummy!

Newt, in general, is a fan of Hermann. He’s a fan of the way Hermann looks (big brown eyes, soft eyelashes, funny wide lips that curl up into smiles just for Newt). He’s a fan of the way Hermann dresses (even if Newt, does, have a tendency to tease him for it). He’s a fan of Hermann’s dumb accent, and the way it thickens to near-incomprehensibility when he’s tired (or very, very horny). He’s a fan of Hermann’s dorkiness. Hermann’s intelligence.

He’s  _especially_  a fan of how flustered Hermann gets in bed, almost like the very concept of being pleasured–of Newt pleasuring him, and being pleasured in return–is some deep, dark, dirty secret. Like no one on the green Earth should possibly be privy to the information that Hermann Gottlieb Fucks, and fucks a  _lot_.

And God forbid they bring their kinks or even anything remotely less vanilla than tender missionary-style into the mix. Not that Newt has a problem with the vanilla: there’s really not much better, frankly, than Hermann above him, kissing his cheeks, holding his hand, and driving Newt to single syllables with barely more than rocking his hips. He just thinks that, sometimes, he’d like to ask Hermann to pin his arms down or compliment the guy’s deeply-appreciated thoroughness without Hermann immediately going bright red and hiding his face

(On the other hand, it’s kind of cute, so Newt loves exploiting this by all means.)

But Newt finally discovered–through absurdly convoluted means involving their fancy sunken bathtub, a lazy handjob, and a promise to do the dishes when they finished up–that Hermann has a thing for lingerie. That’s what he described it as. Flushed red as anything, bite marks in his bottom lip from how hard he’d dug his teeth in, a  _thing_ , in a tiny little embarrassed gasp. Newt hadn’t teased him for it. What he’d done instead, (after the dishes were cleaned and dried, you know), was hunt down the cheapest online lingerie retailer and immediately order himself as much as he could without dipping into their rent and groceries money. 

This was a week ago.

He meant it to be a surprise for tonight (Hermann will step out of the shower and find Newt laying across their bed, dressed up and ready for taking), but Newt is terrible at surprises, so he ends up blurting everything out over dinner instead.

“I bought lingerie,” he declares.

Hermann, who had been reaching to dole out more gluten-free pasta onto his plate, freezes with a hard jolt. The pasta scoop clatters to the table. “What?” he says.

“I bought some lingerie,” Newt repeats. He smiles innocently. “You’re into that, right?”

Hermann’s tell-tale embarrassed flush begins to creep down his cheeks, neck, past the high collar of his button-up. He doesn’t speak again until his ears have turned bright red. “Newton,” he says, and he reaches for his glass of water, picks it up, sets it back down. “Newton. You..?”

Newt’s smile grows. He tiptoes his index and middle finger across the table, covers Hermann’s hand with his own. “I sure did,” he says. Hermann swallows heavily. Newt squeezes his hand and winks. “You wanna see?”

Hermann nods.

The grand seduction does not go as planned. Newt gets Hermann stripped down to his dorky tighty-whiteys, thin undershirt, and socks and sock garters, and he kisses him enough to get him moaning and squirming against him, but the moment Newt slips out to slip  _in_ to some of the stuff he’d bought, it goes a little downhill. He rips one stocking in the process of pulling them up. The panties don’t quite cover his ass. He can’t even lace up the corset, which he can’t even say he  _wants_ to, given how difficult it is to breathe in it, how tight and constrictive it is. 

He finally waddles back into the room after ten minutes (when Hermann had been beginning to call his name worriedly), one stocking around his calf, panties squeezing him tight, and corset hanging off his chest. Hermann promptly bursts into wheezing laughter.

“Jackass,” Newt says, pouting.

“I’m  _sorry_ ,” Hermann says, still wheezing. “You look–a bit silly.”

Newt’s pout deepens to a scowl, and he turns and shows Hermann the back of the corset. “Help me lace this thing up, will you?” He’s positive he’ll look less silly with the corset adjusted properly.

“Of course, love.”

Hermann kisses the back of Newt’s neck while he laces him up, rubbing against his ass eagerly a bit more than usual, but the moment he finishes and Newt turns around to kiss him, his face falls. Anxiety spikes in the pit of Newt’s stomach. “What?” he says. “What’d I do wrong?”

Hermann shakes his head hurriedly, and he draws Newt into his arms to kiss him. “No, darling,” he says, once he’s kissed over Newt’s face, and Newt’s relaxed, “it’s not you. It’s–” His eyes fall to the corset. “It merely slims you  _down_  a bit, is all.”

Newt also looks down. “Oh,” he says. Hermann’s right, really. It’s not merely constricting him so he can’t exactly breathe _–_ it makes him lose most of his soft edges, too. Which is a problem, for them, because Newt knows how much Hermann loves his soft edges.

Hermann is rubbing his hand over Newt’s side. His lips have curled down into a small frown. “Have you, er, bought anything else?”

He has a slutty nurse outfit that he’s planning on saving for Hermann’s birthday, another pair of panties, and… “One second,” Newt says, and scrambles to his feet.

Attempt number two is better: he ditches the corset for a lace teddy, soft, pale blue and the sort of thing that he can actually move around in. Hermann is far more enthusiastic about this–he’s reduced, once more, to the flustered, fumbling manner Newt usually associates with  _sex with Hermann_. He pushes Hermann onto his back on the bed and quickly straddles his hips, making sure to graze one stockinged leg against his; Hermann shivers.

“How’s this?” Newt says, and drags Hermann’s hand up to his chest, placing his thumb right over where his nipple pokes out through the lace. Hermann rubs at it, almost on impulse, ‘til it hardens to a small peak and sends Newt shivering himself. “You like this better?” He bats his eyelashes.

Hermann nods. He’s wheezing a little again. “You look  _lovely_ ,” he says. His other hand creeps down to Newt’s side, to the bit of stomach that tumbles over the waistline of Newt’s panties and that the teddy reveals, and he begins squeezing in earnest. “Newton,” he moans, ears bright red once more, only going brighter when he seems to realize the sheer  _volume_ of his voice.

For what’s probably the one-hundredth time in their relationship, Newt is struck, yet again, with how cute Hermann is. He grins, and ducks down to bump their noses together. Hermann’s big brown doe eyes stare hazily back at him. “I  _do_?” Newt says.

A low groan rises from the back of Hermann’s throat. He slips the hand that’s trapped between their bodies–still thumbing weakly over Newt’s nipple–down to cup Newt’s ass instead. (Hermann is mildly obsessed with his ass.) “You  _know_  you do, you bastard.”

“’Bastard,’” Newt echoes, and tsks. “Don’t be mean.” He brushes a kiss over Hermann’s jaw, smooth as always.

“Uh,” Hermann gasps.

Newt kisses his jaw again, then down to the little sensitive spot just behind his ear, where he grins, puffs out a few breathes of warm air, then draws his tongue down in a quick swipe in a surefire way to make Hermann shake. “How’s that, Dr. Gottlieb?” he teases.

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann gasps a little louder. The fingertips of one hand dig into the skin of Newt’s ass, the fingertips of the other into his soft waist and stomach. Newt hopes he leaves bruises dark enough to be visible through the lace. That’d be hot.

“C’mon,” Newt urges, rubbing his leg against Hermann’s bare one again. He rocks his hips down, enjoying how he can feel Hermann stiffen through their layers of underwear, how Hermann rocks back up desperately. “Touch me, honey. Wherever you’d like.”

When Hermann kisses him, it’s biting and hungry, and his hands begin to rove over Newt hungrily too: squeezing his waist, again, his stomach, his thighs, his ass, sliding up and pinching his nipples hard. It’s perfect. It’s wonderful. “Yes,” Newt sighs, barely audible, as Hermann sucks on his lower lip. Then, because he knows Hermann needs the encouragement, or he’d stay gasping and speechless until he comes in his pants otherwise, breathes into his ear “What do you wanna do to me?”

“A great many things,” Hermann laughs, sounding strained.

“You wanna make a mess of me?” Newt says. He pulls Hermann’s hand on his thigh down to the large, gaping hole in his tights on the back of his knee. Casualty of his hurried dressing. “You wanna rip these some more?”

Hermann tugs, gentle at first, then  _rough_ ; the hole rips wider. Hermann inhales sharply. His hands go back up to the lace teddy at Newt’s back, and he tugs on that, too, hard enough to rip it as well. Newt hears a few pieces of thread pop worryingly. “ _Easy,_ dude. Stockings are fair game. This is–” There’s a  _rip_. “Hermann,” he whines, “this is expensive.”

“I’ll buy you another,” Hermann promises. He flips them gently, so Newt’s on his back, instead, and starts kissing down his neck, down between the lace covering his pecs and framing his stomach. He stops just above Newt’s bellybutton, right at the scratchy little patch of hair that trails down beyond his lace waistband. “Sweet thing,” he murmurs. He nuzzles against Newt and squeezes his exposed sides a few more times.

It’s Newt’s turn to blush, to resist the urge to hide his face. (Hermann is never this bold.) He threads his fingers in Hermann’s short hair instead. “That’s good,” he says, as Hermann begins to drag his tongue over Newt’s skin in tiny little shapes, a circle, a square, a  _heart_ , “that’s really good. Wow.”

“Mm?” Hermann says.

“Keep doing that,” Newt urges, and wiggles his hips in a way that’s definitely less sexy and more needy than he wanted it to be. It seems to work on Hermann; after a tiny nip and a kiss at the same patch of skin he’d been worrying over previously, he starts doing his best to suck a large hickey into it. It tickles like hell, and somehow manages to make Newt moan his head off anyway.

“You’re very perfect, Newton,” Hermann says, sounding very, very out of breath, and Newt holds his head very firmly in place.

“S’ better than the corset?” Newt pants.

“Far better,” Hermann says, and then, as promised, begins to work on making Newt into a mess.


	175. "i am in love with a moron"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Headcanon/prompt: Newt and Hermann are together but the first time the l-word comes up is when Newt does something completely ridiculous and Hermann just stares at him and says "I am in love with a moron."

“Stop hogging the covers,” Newt says.

“I’m  _not_ ,” Hermann says, “but even if I  _were_ , I would be completely justified, as they’re  _mine_.” He tugs hard on the bedspread to prove his point, and it slips off of Newt entirely, exposing two sturdy, hairy legs and a pair of lime green boxers. Newt immediately gives a pathetic shiver and snatches it back. Or attempts to snatch it back. Hermann holds fast.

“It’s cold in here,” Newt whines. “It’s worse than fucking Alaska.”

“This wouldn’t be a problem if you hadn’t broken my space heater,” Hermann snaps back. He has not forgiven Newt for the space heater.

Newt blinks at Hermann pitifully, still pulling fruitlessly at the blanket, and Hermann lasts three seconds before relenting with a heavy sigh and allowing Newt an extra inch or so. Out of the pure goodness of his heart.

Newt makes a noise like a happy cat and presses himself against Hermann’s chest, winding an arm around his waist. “Thanks, honey,” he says. Then he looks, pointedly, between Hermann’s face and where they’ve perched Newt’s bulky laptop at the end of the bed. Their film is paused, from when Newt had gotten bored and they’d engaged in some light kissing and  _strictly_ innocent touching. Before he started acting like a toddler about the bedspread.

Hermann heaves another heavy sigh, disentangles himself from Newt, leans forward, and clicks  _play_.

The following thirty minutes pass without incident. Newt does not attempt to cop a feel under Hermann’s pajama shirt, nor does he attempt to steal a kiss, which means Hermann does not have to feign being  _scandalized_  or admonish him for his wandering hands. Hermann’s a bit disappointed, to be quite frank; unlike Newt, apparently,  _he_ isn’t at all interested in the film, which also means he would’ve gladly welcomed any of said wandering hands or lips.

He’s debating being the one to initiate some when, at the thirty-four minute mark, Newt suddenly wiggles out of his grasp and begins digging through the small overnight bag he’d packed. He emerges with a can of Pringles. “You want some?” he says.

“No thank you,” Hermann says, but Newt must detect something in his expression, because he shrugs.

“I thought I’d get hungry, so I packed something,” he says, popping the lid and peeling back the paper seal. “You never have snacks here.” Then he immediately crams a fistful of chips into his mouth and scarcely bothers to chew before he swallows.

“I have snacks,” Hermann says, a touch defensively.

“Instant coffee isn’t a snack, Hermann,” Newt says. He shoves more chips into his mouth and says something else, but Hermann is too preoccupied with the large chip crumbs that fall from Newt’s mouth to the sheets below in the process to even begin to discern what it was.

“Oh, Newton, you’re making a mess of everything,” he frets, and brushes the crumbs to the floor below. He makes a face. Wet. As he should’ve expected. He’ll make Newt sweep them up with a broom later.

Newt swallows again, eyes watering. “Sorry.” He does not sound very sorry. He tilts the container towards Hermann again in offering; Hermann shakes his head vehemently and pushes it back with his fingertip.

“ _No_  thank you,” he repeats.

Newt’s chewing overpowers the sound of his laptop’s tinny speakers by a long shot, and soon Hermann is gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes and counting to ten in his head and  _waiting_ for Newt to catch a hint. Any kind of hint. Or for him to at least finish the tube already.

Then Newt’s chewing stops. “Hey,” he says. “Uh, Hermann. Dude.”

“What is it?”

Newt says nothing, so Hermann opens his eyes and turns to him. He’s got his hand jammed to the wrist in the Pringles can and a very pathetic frown on his face. “It’s stuck,” he says, and waves the can just as pathetically.

Unable to help himself, Hermann’s lips twitch up into a smile. “Unclench your fingers,” he says.

“But I’ll lose my chip,” Newt whines. He pulls very hard. His hand does not budge. 

“You can just–pour the chips out,” Hermann says, struggling very hard not to laugh at his lab partner’s combined stubbornness and just plain…well, idiocy. Newton Geiszler has six PhDs. He reaches for the man’s wrist. “Newton–Newton, stop  _pulling_ –”

Hermann and Newt’s relationship followed like this: pen pals, then ex-pen pals, then lab partners, then something a little more than lab partners and a great deal more than friends (lab partners and friends, Hermann reasons, do not share each other’s bed four out of seven nights of the week and get up to the kinds of things they get up to against Hermann’s chalkboard after hours). He has not yet told Newt he loves him, though he’s often had the fleeting thought of it, because he has not quite felt himself ready to. Hermann’s imagined the scenario playing out in a multitude of ways: in the midst of intercourse, during an evening where Newt treats Hermann to dinner and holds his hand beneath the table the entire time, at the lab, even, when they’re working late and Newt insists they take a nap on the couch and wraps himself around Hermann on instinct to keep him warm and they trade lazy kisses.

He has not imagined blurting it out while Newt, in boxers and an unwashed t-shirt, pouting, covered in crumbs, waves a chip can around frantically. “I’m in love with a complete moron,” Hermann declares, and Newt’s eyes bulge behind his glasses and his hand (still inside the can) freezes in mid-air.

“ _What_?” he says.

“You’re a moron,” Hermann clarifies.

“Not that part!” Newt says. “The other part!”

“Oh,” Hermann says. “I’m in love with you.” He considers it. This way seems, somehow, most appropriate of all. “It feels nice to say it aloud.”

He’s met with an armful of an eager, beaming Newt, who kisses him so messily that their glasses knock together more than their lips. He tastes like salt and vinegar. “I love you  _too_ ,” Newt laughs into his mouth. “Wow, Hermann, I didn’t think–” He attempts to cup the side of Hermann’s face, but uses the hand still in the can. “Oh, hold on–”

He finally relinquishes his hold on the chip inside, as Hermann had been  _telling_ him to, and shakes off the can easily. It lands on the floor with a dull thud and rolls under the bed.

“Was that so hard?” Hermann says, smugly.

“Dick,” Newt says, and starts kicking off the blankets. “Shut off the dumb movie, I wanna make out.”


	176. stealing each other's clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> prompt maybe? hermann makes a habit of stealing newts t shirts and wearing them in the morning, they're very big on him and newt loves it. one morning newt wears one of hermanns undershirts and starts kissing herm to wake him up and herm is so pleased to see newt in his white tank top with his arms on display and clinging onto his soft curves

It’s a toss-up, most mornings, between which of them gets up first. During the war, it was always Newt. He gets antsy, and  _bored,_  so easily, has so much manic energy to spare, that moment he’d open his eyes, he had to be up and out of bed and dressing for work. Hermann was always the lazy one who needed his beauty sleep, who scowled and grumbled and swatted at Newt like a big baby whenever Newt had to wake him up before ten o’clock for some reason. Which was _all days_ they needed to be in the lab. It was like the bastard developed an immunity to alarm clocks or something. He’d just sleep right through them.

After their drift, when things got–scrambled, a bit, when  _they_ got scrambled, their sleeping schedules got a little scrambled too. Now, Newt sleeps in late some days. Hermann sleeps in late some days. Some days, they’re both dressed and ready and wide awake by nine; some days, they lounge around in their undershirts and boxers or sweatpants together and kiss lazily until eleven. 

Today is a morning where Newt wakes up first.

The first thing he sees (once he crams his glasses back onto his face) is the gentle sway of their curtains in the breeze and sunlight streaming in through the open window. Newt loves spring; he can almost smell their garden, stretching out just below the window.

The second thing he sees–the even better thing, really–is that same sunlight falling on Hermann, still fast asleep and curled half-on Newt’s chest: long eyelashes fanned out across Hermann’s sharp cheekbones, mouth hanging open, hair a ruffled mess, and snoring, very, very gently (though he’ll deny he does it if Newt dares to tease him about it). Drooling a little. He’s wearing Newt’s shirt, and it’s too big on him, the collar pulled down low and exposing too-bony, too-pale skin. A tiny, almost invisible dusting of freckles. 

Newt loves these moments of simple intimacy more than anything, really–the privilege of being able to witness Hermann like this, with bedhead and a baggy shirt and red lines from the pillowcase. He leans down and kisses the top of Hermann’s head very, very gently, so as not to wake him just yet, then wriggles out from beneath his arm and slips out of bed. He’ll set a pot of coffee on, maybe boil some water in case Hermann wants tea, then head back to wake Hermann up the way Hermann likes. Slowly, and with a shit-ton of kisses.

Hermann’s undershirt is lying in a little heap with his slacks on the floor, discarded there the previous night. It’s a little wrinkled. Newt prods at it speculatively with one socked foot, and casts a glance back over his shoulder at Hermann.

It’s only fair, really, that if Hermann steals  _Newt’s_ shirts, Newt can steal Hermann’s.

He pulls it on over his own bare chest. It’s a little tight, especially where it clings to his stomach, and semi-translucent to the point of his tattoos being visible through the fabric, but he knows Hermann always loves ogling his love handles and arms, so it’s not a problem.

Once Newt finishes up with the coffee (grateful they had pre-ground beans, so he doesn’t wake Hermann up) and snags the newspaper from the front porch so they can argue over the crossword clues, he immediately crawls back under the covers, wraps his arms around Hermann, and starts showering him with kisses. One to the corner of his mouth (the corner he’s  _not_ drooling from), to the tip of his nose, several grazing across his cheek and down his jaw, one to his sharp, exposed collarbone. Hermann blinks awake sleepily when Newt’s kiss trail makes it back up to his lips and he nips at the bottom one (wide, and a little chapped) very gently.

“Newton?” Hermann slurs, sounding impossibly cute. When Newt hums in affirmation and kisses him again, Hermann slides his hand up the back of his head to hold him in place. Newt can feel his lips curling into a smile.

“Good morning,” Newt says. He knocks their noses together, and presses a kiss to Hermann’s chin. Hermann nearly purrs with contentment.

“Good morning,” he echoes. He blinks those brown doe eyes at Newt again. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not too long,” Newt says, “I made some coffee.” Hermann–after stretching his arms over his head with a small groan, and rolling his shoulders back one at a time–wraps Newt back in an embrace and pulls him tight to his chest. He’s all bony angles, unlike Newt, and a little comically sharp to the touch, but Newt loves it anyway. Even if he did accidentally give himself a black eye on Hermann’s elbow once.

Hermann splays the fingers of one hand across Newt’s bare arm, those of the other across Newt’s bare shoulder; his eyes sweep over Newt’s broad back. “You’re wearing my shirt,” he finally says.

“I am,” Newt says. He presses another kiss to Hermann’s exposed collarbone, right over one light freckle. They always come out more in the warmer months, when he finally sheds a few layers and unbuttons his collar a bit and Newt manages to coerce him out from under the shade to get some  _sun_. Something he, also, usually achieves with a lot of kisses. 

“I like how it looks on you,” Hermann says, small, sleepy smile creeping up into something broader. He squeezes Newt’s soft bicep. “Lovely,” he continues, in a little him. He winds his right leg around Newt’s left and holds him in place as he starts to leave a trail of kisses up his neck.

“Coffee’s gonna get cold,” Newt warns, even as he chases Hermann’s kisses in return.

“Mm. Don’t care.” Hermann bites his earlobe. He plucks at the undershirt. “You should wear this more often.”

“Maybe if you  _washed_ it every once in a while,” Newt says.

Hermann doesn’t stop kissing him, but he does flick his back; Newt snickers.


	177. proposal + happy crying (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote a quick newt/hermann ficlet last night and it doesn’t seem long enough to post on ao3 so i’m just…..dropping it here…..askbox promptless……. here’s some mildly botched marriage proposal, happy crying, and (at the end, way below cut)

Hermann has always been the type to plan things very meticulously. He sets out each day’s outfit the night before he intends to wear it, just after he dresses for bed, but before he brushes his teeth. He has never been surprised by a birthday, nor an anniversary with Newton of any sort (not even the most inane ones, like the one year mark of their first date outside the Shatterdome, which was technically their fifth date altogether). He made a career out of meticulous planning, after all: every bit of code in its correct place, location of the Breach pinpointed to the last decimal, next kaiju attack to the last millisecond. It’s like second nature to him.

It’s why he can’t figure out why proposing to Newton is so bloody  _hard_.

He knows, logically, that Newton will say yes. He knows that Newton loves him. Newton knows that Hermann loves him in return. They live together. They share a bed. They do exceedingly romantic things like hold hands as they walk down the street, and knock ankles under the dinner table (in public, or otherwise), and spend long mornings in bed doing nothing but kissing and laughing and teasing each other. Hermann has heard Newton, more than once, refer to Hermann in public as  _my partner_ , and then clarify he does not just mean in the sharing-a-lab sense, and he keeps a small photograph of Hermann (a Polaroid, taken during a lazy day in the sun the previous summer) in a frame on his desk and, often, Hermann will walk in unannounced and find him smiling at it.

Hermann’s run the numbers. He knows the odds. He’s bought the ring—simple, silver, with a small green stone he thinks would compliment Newton’s eyes—and had it sized accordingly after some  _very_  covert snooping through Newton’s cluttered jewelry box. It should not be a problem. The ring sits at the bottom of his neatly-folded underwear drawer for three months, anyway, collecting dust, sending a lump rising in Hermann’s throat every time his fingers inadvertently brush the velvet casing. It’ll need a polish by the time Hermann finally gets around to it.

He eventually settles on a completely random date, to kick himself into gear; a completely ordinary Tuesday three months into the future. He marks it on his cell phone’s calendar with a cryptic emoticon (a single flower) so that, should Newton see it by mistake, he won’t be able to decode it.

Predictably, when the date comes, Hermann chickens out.

He doesn’t mean to. He wakes up early for the express purpose of  _not_  chickening out. He means to make Newton breakfast in bed, to wake him with kisses, to hold the ring box out as Newton stirs sugar into his coffee and confess every sappy, over-the-top,  _sentimental_  feeling he’s had for the man over the course of a decade and a half of knowing each other: how alone he was before Newton, how Newton made him feel things he never knew were possible for him to feel, how Newton is the love of his life.

Hermann wakes early. He leaves behind a nude and drooling Newton, stretched out on their bed, to take a quick shower. He dresses. He slips the ring box into his pocket. He settles onto the edge of the bed and smooths his fingers through Newton’s hair.

The touch makes Newton stir.

He blinks awake, slowly, blearily, and Hermann is struck by how effortlessly handsome he is, how soft, how beautiful, down to the freckles dusting his shoulders and the small scar on his left pinkie. “Hi,” Newton mumbles. He swipes at the side table for his glasses, with no use; he’s nearly blind without them. “You’re up early.”

Handsome, and soft, and beautiful, hair messy, cheeks and chin unshaven, one hazel eye still ringed with blotchy red even years after their drift. I love you, Hermann means to say. I want to spend eternity with you, he also means to say. “You’ve left your underwear next to the hamper again,” is what he actually blurts out.

Newton squints at him. He’s still got a trickle of drool on his chin. It’s begun to dry. “What?” he says.

Face heating up, Hermann sticks the glasses, clumsily, onto Newton’s face. “Er,” he says, and then he repeats, “You’ve left your underwear next to hamper again. Is it  _really_  so difficult to take the extra second, open the lid, and—?”

“Ugh,” Newton says, and he drags a pillow over his face. “You did  _not_  wake me up just to yell at me.”

Hermann could say it, now, could seize the unknowingly offered second chance. He does not.

“Get up,” he says. “We have work soon.” He snags his cane from the side table, pushes himself up to his feet, and makes a beeline for the door, the ring box like dead weight in his pocket.

“Ugggggggh,” Newton groans again, though it’s moderately more muffled. “I hate you so much. You’re the worst. Oh my  _God_.”

Hermann walks a little faster.

 

Newton gets up. He grumbles his way through shared breakfast at the kitchen island. They go to work. Newton grumbles his way through shared lunch in Hermann’s office. They come home from work. Newton’s forgiven him for their rough morning by dinner—a quick affair of reheated Sunday night Chinese takeaway, shared on the couch with the contents of their DVR and half a bottle of wine—and, indeed, to the extent that the moment Hermann polishes off the last forkful of rice and drains the last of his glass, Newton’s hands begin to rove and his lips make themselves very firmly at home on Hermann’s neck.

“Mm,” Hermann moans, at first, and then, when Newton’s nimble fingers work open the buckle of his belt and begin to creep down, cracks open an eye and says, “ah, darling, wait, not here—”

“Why not?” Newton says, and nips at his throat. He rubs at the slowly-growing wet patch at the front of Hermann’s briefs, then squeezes gently; Hermann nearly goes cross-eyed.

“The couch,” he gasps, even as he bucks into Newton’s touch, “it’s new. Don’t—don’t make a mess of it. Oh.”

“Fussy,” Newton says, eyes lighting up mischievously. He squeezes again. “Lemme help you unwind.”

“Newton,” Hermann says.

Newton’s hand retreats from his trousers. “ _Alright_ ,” he says. “What, you want me to lay down newspaper or something? Towels? We’ve gotta christen it eventually.”

“We’re not going to christen it at  _all_ ,” Hermann says, thinking back to their last unfortunate couch, which lasted them a mere two years before the combination of spilled coffee (Newton), soy sauce (Newton), ketchup (Newton), ink (Hermann), and—er—certain byproducts of sexual intercourse (Newton  _and_  Hermann) rendered it stained and filthy beyond use. This is, very firmly, a no sex allowed couch, a sentiment Hermann has already expressed numerous times.

“Hermann,” Newton whines, and flutters his eyelashes. “I’m horny.”

“We have a bed,” Hermann says.

 

They make it to the bed, to Hermann’s surprise, only stopping for messy, fumbling, giggling kisses twice in the hallway leading up to it. Newton pushes Hermann back onto the bed—unmade, from that morning—and Hermann props himself up on his elbows to enjoy the show as Newton begins to strip, comically slowly. The tie is lost first. Then each boot. He flings his button-up across the room, in the direction of the dresser, and it sends a framed photograph of their first vacation together crashing to the hardwood with an ominous cracking noise.

(“I’ll buy another frame,” he assures Hermann.)

When he’s finally stripped down to just his undershirt and hot pink boxers, he crawls up onto the bed and straddles Hermann. Hermann’s hands fly to Newton’s waist, at the stretch of tattooed skin exposed by his rucked-up undershirt. “How’s that?” Newton says, rocking his hips down, clothed groin catching clumsily on Hermann’s. “That feel good? You like that?”

Hermann nods, fingers digging hard into Newton’s soft skin. “Yes,” he moans.

Newton drags one of Hermann’s hands up to his chest and presses Hermann’s thumb to his nipple; Hermann begins rubbing at it instantly, enjoying the way it stiffens into a peak, the way it pokes the fabric out visibly. “Yeah,” Newton pants, tongue hanging half-out of his mouth, “yeah, that’s awesome, keep doing that.” He rocks his hips down more insistently. “Oh, Hermann,” he purrs, “is that a TI-84 Plus in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

A wide grin stretches across Newton’s face; Hermann breaks out into helpless, hiccoughing laughter at the absurdity of the question. Then two things happen at once: Newton squeezes his thighs, tight, vice-like, around Hermann’s, and Hermann suddenly recalls the ring box, stowed in the left pocket of his trousers, now pressing painfully into his skin with the force of those thighs. Pressing painfully into  _Newton’s_  skin.

Newton stops squeezing him. His grin fades into a look of mild confusion. Hermann stops laughing. “ _Do_  you have something in your pocket?” Newton says.

“No,” Hermann says quickly, but Newton is already grazing his fingers over the outline of the box through the fabric and laughing.

“Do you seriously carry chalk around with you?” he says. “Dude, that’s so—”

Newton pulls out the ring box. He stops laughing, too.

“Hermann?” he squeaks.

Hermann’s ears begin to burn with mortification, then his cheeks, then his neck. “Give it here,” he says, giving a desperate swipe for the box and missing entirely. His heart thuds madly in his chest. Newton can probably hear it.  _Feel_  it. “Newton, give it—”

Newton cracks the box open. His eyes bulge comically. “Hermann,” he squeaks again, “Hermann, what is this? Is this—did you—?” To Hermann’s horror, he begins to tear up. “Did you—?”

Seeing no way to save face, Hermann shuts his eyes. “I’d intended to ask you this morning,” he confesses, dragging his hand up to his forehead, “but I—”

Newton kisses him. It’s not very graceful. It’s a bit painful, actually: their glasses knock together, and so do their teeth, and it’s all a bit wet, too, because Newton has begun genuinely crying, little sobs that leave his shoulders and chest shaking. Hermann kisses back as best he can and strokes, soothingly, at Newton’s hair.

“I love it so much,” Newton says, once he’s finally calmed down enough to start speaking again. “And you. Hermann—” He sniffles and wipes under his glasses at his eye with the heel of his palm. “I’m sorry I ruined the surprise.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Newton, love,” Hermann assures him. The ring box lays forgotten on the sheets; Hermann picks it up, and, pressing a kiss to the corner of Newton’s mouth, slides the ring out of it and onto Newton’s finger. “There.” He pats his wrist.

Newton sniffles again. He smiles at his hand. “I love it,” he repeats, and his eyes well up again. Hermann hasn’t seen him cry this much since their goldfish died two years ago. It’s a bit unnerving. “Hermann,” he says, “we’re gonna get  _married_.”

“We are,” Hermann says, and smiles back tentatively.

Newton kisses him again. And again. And again.

Things devolve, rapidly, from innocent and chaste, to, well— “Already?” Hermann gasps, incredulous, as Newton begins rubbing the cleft of his ass down against Hermann’s groin. 

“Uh-huh,” Newton gasps in return. He hasn’t even stopped crying yet. “It’s  _hot_  when you’re romantic.”


	178. “sorry, it’s just... i’m not used to people wanting to stay”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> okay i’m a sucker for tenderness like this but prompt: “sorry, it’s just... i’m not used to people wanting to stay”

“That was awesome,” Newton says.

“It was,” Hermann agrees.

“ _You_  were awesome,” Newton says. He stretches his arms above his head and rolls back his shoulders. The bedsheet slips down, revealing tattooed pectorals, patchy light brown hair, a blooming hickey, courtesy of Hermann, the sight of which pleases him. “You know how to rock a guy’s world.”

Hermann preens, despite his flush. He has never turned his cheek on flattery. “Thank you,” he says. He pats Newton’s hand (strong, with a pinkie ring, chipped nail polish) gently, because it seems like the polite thing to do. “You were exceptional as well.”

“Ten stars?” Newton says.

“Eleven,” Hermann says.

Newton smiles dopily at him.

They lapse into silence. It’s comfortable, at first–the near-inaudible electric buzz of Hermann’s alarm clock, music playing further down the hall, Newton’s hard breathing and beating heart combining to form a sort of soothing lullaby–but Newton’s glances in Hermann’s direction soon turn long, lingering, full of something that Hermann can’t place, and he starts to twist his pinkie ring around and around and around, and Hermann realizes, with the force of a freight train, that he’s had sex with Newton Geiszler.

And, frankly he’s not sure either of them know what to do next.

Hermann finally clears his throat. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?”

It is. If they’d planned this, Hermann imagines–rather than giving into violent spur-of-the-moment emotions and tearing at each other’s jackets in a thankfully deserted corridor–they’d’ve gotten started far earlier. Finished far earlier. It’s already past eleven-PM. Hermann usually goes to bed at ten.

Newton’s face falls into the picture of perfect neutrality. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. It is.” During the act, Newton insisted on keeping his glasses on ( _less sexy, but less blind_ , he’d said, with a low laugh, hot, in Hermann’s ear, and how thrilling it was to have someone want to  _see Hermann_ like this), but he’d had to adjust them when either of them made a sharp or sudden movement or they’d slide off the end of his nose. He begins adjusting them now, up and down, up and down, an anxious little tick, almost as if he can’t quite figure out what to do with his fingers. Like the pinkie ring before.

Newton is the first of Hermann’s sexual partners to have his nipples pierced, tiny little barbells that glint in the low light of Hermann’s bedside lamp. Hermann imagines they must’ve hurt like hell to get. ( _I used to have Pokeball_ ones, Newton had said when Hermann pulled his undershirt off over his head and splayed his fingers across that lovely, colorful chest.  _Why_ , Hermann said.  _Because they were awesome_ , Newton said, and grinned, which Hermann supposes is as good of an explanation as any.)

Newton is also the first of Hermann’s sexual partners to not make his excuses and leave immediately after intercourse. Sweat still cooling on Hermann’s skin. Hermann had a boyfriend, once, years and years ago–if he could even count as a boyfriend–who wouldn’t even kiss Hermann before he ducked out. But Newton is fidgeting. Newton is anxious. Newton, perhaps–Hermann realizes, with a sinking feeling–regrets it already. Newton, perhaps, is looking for an out.

Hermann decides to give it to him. It’s the kinder thing for both of them.

“I suppose you’ll be off, then,” Hermann says, a bit too loudly.

A frown tugs at the corners of Newton’s lovely mouth. “Oh,” he says, and then, “right, yeah, uh, of course, let me just–”

He stumbles out from beneath the bedsheets to the tile floor, half-shielding his body as if embarrassed of it–as if Hermann hadn’t just spent a few hours getting very, very intimately acquainted with it. He starts wiggling into his clothing, back turned to Hermann. It takes him a bit of time to find everything: they’d undressed in a frantic flurry of kisses and teeth knocking and fogged glasses and breathless giggling, after all, hardly time to fold anything. His jeans are flung over Hermann’s desk chair, one leg inside out. Boxers on Hermann’s dresser, along with one sock. Other sock lost to the dusty void underneath Hermann’s bed. Shirt and undershirt mixed in with Hermann’s.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess,” he says over his shoulder. “At the lab. Work. Maybe breakfast. Do you want to get breakfast?  _Shit_ –” He restarts on the buttons of his shirt. Skipped a button, Hermann assumes. “Where was I?”

“Breakfast,” Hermann says. He already feels the loss of Newton–soft, warm, wonderfully pliant Newton. He really had been a courteous partner. Sweet, too. Liberal with kisses to Hermann’s face, and wrists, and bony knees. Anywhere he could reach. He liked to have his hair stroked. (Hermann’s had sex with Newton Geiszler. How  _strange_.)

“Breakfast,” Newton repeats, but his voice cracks oddly. His hands freeze on his shirt, and he does not continue speaking.

Hermann sits straight up. “Newton?”

Newton turns to face Hermann. One tail of his shirt is tucked into his boxers; his lower lip is wobbling like Hermann’s never seen before. The sight is unnerving.

“Newton, what on Earth is the matter?” Hermann says.

“I wasn’t trying to–” Newton stammers, twisting the fabric of his shirt so hard in his fist it wrinkles, “it’s fine if it doesn’t mean–Hermann, can I just stay here? Is that okay? Do you care?”

Guilt settles, heavy, like a weight, in Hermann’s stomach. He’s misinterpreted everything very, very badly. By all appearances, he’s had his way with Newton and then nearly thrust him out into the cold for no reason whatsoever. “Oh, Newton,” he sighs, and draws back the bedsheets. “I’m sorry. Please come here.”

Newton needs little urging, and shucks off his clothing and jumps back into bed in a flash. Hermann pulls the sheet over top both of them. The bed’s plenty warm without his comforter tonight. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, curling a protective arm around Newton while Newton winds his arms around his waist, “it’s just…I’m not used to people wanting to stay, is all.”

“I’m not used to people wanting  _me_ to stay, either,” Newton laughs, but it’s forced, and it rings far to truthful for Hermann’s liking.

A lot of things are, for Hermann, unclear at the moment, the nature of his relationship with his lab partner from this point onward at the top of the list, but one thing Hermann is very certain about is that he’d like–more than anything–to have Newton in his bed tonight. And perhaps other nights in the conceivable future. “I want you to stay,” he says, firmly, and squeezes Newton’s freckled shoulder just as firmly. He brushes a kiss to the top of Newton’s head. His soft hair tickles Hermann’s nose.

Newton makes a soft, contented, little noise, and nuzzles against Hermann’s pectoral. “Can we still get breakfast together?” he mumbles, leaving lazy, open-mouthed kisses at Hermann’s skin.

Hermann reaches down and plucks off Newton’s glasses, and sets them on the bedside table. He presses another kiss to Newton’s hair. “Of course,” he says.


	179. old age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I'm brokenhearted today. Could you write a fluffy/romantic old age fic for Newt and Hermann? Please and thank you.

Newt’s been calling Hermann  _old man_ for as long as he can remember. Since the first photograph Hermann ever sent, tucked inside the folds of a neatly-penned letter (Hermann always used stationary decorated with delicate little flowers), of himself in his too-big sweater and his too-big glasses and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes (premature–Hermann had only been twenty-five), teasing, at first, then mocking, when things turned sour (spat out in late-night arguments in the lab), until finally smoothing out into the soft, affectionate way that Newt was always too chicken to use it before.  _Old man_ alongside morning kisses, brushing hands, Hermann doing up Newt’s tie in the bathroom mirror (or  _un_ doing Newt’s tie in the bedroom), dozing off on each other’s shoulders on the couch. Habit, at this point; well-worn and comfortable.

When he calls Hermann  _old man_  now, it’s the truth. Hermann’s old. Newt’s old.

“I never really thought we’d get here,” Newt says. The evening’s cool for late spring, aided by the day’s thunderstorm. Soon, they’ll be waking up throughout the night with sweat-damp skin, and Hermann will whine for Newt to crack the windows or switch on the air conditioning or  _stop bloody clinging_  to him, at least, but for now–wicker swing loveseat creaking, light blanket spread across their legs, Hermann’s head on Newt’s lap as Newt strokes his thinning hair–they’re content to sit on their back porch beneath their faded string lights and enjoy it.

Hermann opens his eyes. “Get where?” he murmurs.

“You know,” Newt says, and gestures, broadly, from their small backyard (overgrown patches of gardens, thick foliage) to their small cottage (one floor, easier for Hermann to navigate) to the very conjoined nature of their current position. “Here.”

“Ah,” Hermann says.

“I always wanted it,” Newt says. “With you, I mean. Really fucking bad.” Even on their worst nights–after their worst arguments–Newt never lost the secret hope that, one day, after the world didn’t end, he could play out every corny, domestic fantasy he ever daydreamed about with Hermann. Ironing Hermann’s shirts. Doing dishes together. Opening a  _joint bank account_. Peak romance. “Kinda thought we’d die before we turned forty, though.”

Hermann laughs, and smiles, toothy and eye-crinkling, and one hand drifts up to cup Newt’s cheek. Newt needs a shave, badly, especially since his beard comes in entirely grey now, and he hates to have even the smallest hint of stubble visible. Makes him look ancient. Newt can deal with bidding his skinny jeans farewell–he’s got…a bit too much pudge to make them work, now–and he can even deal with how badly his tats have faded over the decades, but he refuses a grey beard. Newt calls Hermann _old man_ , but Hermann still calls him  _young man_  ( _my young man Newton_ , he says, to colleagues, strangers, the girls at the farmer’s market who slip Hermann extra oranges each Saturday), and Newt feels like he’s got a bit of an image to keep up.

“Pessimist,” Hermann says.

“That’s it?” Newt says. “Not even a little romantic?”

“I’ll concede to a little,” Hermann says, smiling a bit wider. He grips the left lapel of Newt’s collar and tugs on him, twice. His big brown eyes are fixed on Newt’s mouth. “Kiss me, won’t you?”

Newt does. It’s a bit awkward, seeing as Newt has to lean over to do it, his chin pressing against Hermann’s forehead, Hermann’s lower lip hitting Newt’s top lip and vice-versa, but Hermann gives a long, happy sigh, which makes it completely worth it. Newt loves Hermann so much he could burst with it, some times.

“We should weed the vegetable garden tomorrow,” Hermann says, a bit later, in another murmur, still gazing up at Newt with his soft eyes. Newt knows what  _weeding the vegetable garden_ means: Hermann wants Newt to toil away weeding it while he relaxes in this very same loveseat, drinks lemonade, and eyes up Newt (as if Newt’s even  _remotely_  as hot as he used to be) and flirts from afar, like he’s done every spring since they were forty.

But it does seem like a good idea. The vegetable patch is in need of it, and a lot of the tomatoes are ripe and ready to be picked. Newt likes making the dandelions into crowns for Hermann, anyway. “We have that blueberry bush to plant, too,” Newt says. The bush is currently sitting in a temporary plastic pot next to their mailbox. The sooner they plant it, the sooner Hermann can get to work concocting blueberry pastries to his amateur-baker-heart’s content for Newt to eat in one sitting. Win-win.

“Gardening day it is then,” Hermann says. “No morning walk?”

They usually skip morning walks on gardening days, since gardening day means Newt, at least, will be getting plenty of exercise in the afternoon. No morning walk also means that they’ll sleep in late, which Newt is a big fan of. “No morning walk,” Newt agrees.

Hermann suddenly yawns. His eyelids have begun to droop. “It must be getting late,” he says. “Shall we head to bed soon?”

Newt grins. “‘S not even ten yet, you old man.”

“Mm. Ten is late enough.” Hermann gives Newt’s collar another great tug. “Up, Newton. Bed.”

“Okay,  _okay_ ,” Newt says, fond despite his best efforts to appear otherwise; Hermann hasn’t lost a fraction of his bitchiness.


	180. baby newt + public access show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> garfunkelandgoats asked:  
> concept/prompt idea if you feel so inclined: newt had a cute but incredibly shitty local public access show as a little kid where he screeches about frogs and lizards and whatnot like a tiny coyote peterson, hermann finds out somehow and never lets him live it down ever but is also endeared because oh my GOD

“You’ll be fine,” Newton says, as he struggles, in vain, to do up Hermann’s bowtie. “Really. It’s a piece of cake. I’ve done it a million times.” He drops his hands in frustration. “Jesus, how does this thing work?” **  
**

Hermann tsks, and then begins to fret a bit, one-handed, over the bow tie himself. Fretting is second nature to Hermann. Today has him fretting even more than usual: there were early alarms to be set, dry-cleaning to be picked up (Newton’s singular good suit had a large splotch of cocktail sauce on the lapel from years ago, Hermann’s good trousers had chalk on the seat and cocktail sauce from where Newton, incensed at Hermann for mocking him over _his_ spilled cocktail sauce, smeared it in retaliation), cabs to be hailed, and, in nine minutes and twenty-five seconds, a television interview to be had. “Oh, we should’ve gone with the clip-on.”

“Clip-on’s not professional enough,” Newton says. “Everyone would be able to tell.”

The irony of Newton pointing something out as  _unprofessional_  is not lost on Hermann. Nor is the full meaning of Newton’s earlier statement; realization hits Hermann belatedly, but it still hits him. “What do you mean you’ve done it ‘a million times’?”

“Oh,” Newton says, airily. “You know.”

“I don’t,” Hermann says.

“TV,” Newton says. He finally manages to correctly knot Hermann’s bow tie, and cuts off Hermann’s attempts to question just what, exactly, he’s referring to by TV, by crowing in triumph. “Ha! There.” He curls up onto the toes of his boots–no amount of sweet-talking from Hermann could coerce him into wearing dress shoes, or even scraping off a little bit of mud from the soles–and plants a kiss on Hermann’s cheek. “Looking good, hottie.”

Hermann begins to flush. “Newton,” he half-chastises, because they’re in plain view of the backstage crew.

Newton plants another kiss at the corner of his mouth, this time, and smooths his palms down the front of Hermann’s dress jacket. “Looking really good.” He noses at Hermann’s neck, and lowers his voice, “I can’t wait to until we get back to the hotel, and I can—”

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann hisses, and Newton merely grins.

The interview goes smoothly. For Newton, anyway; Hermann’s sure he sat stiff-as-a-board for all of it, his eyes wandering everywhere, twisting the head of his cane over and over in his fingers, startling and stuttering for ten seconds whenever a question was posed to him before launching into a meandering and confusing response. But Newton really did seem at home: he smiled, he joked, he bantered, he touched Hermann’s knee, flung an arm around him at one point, had an answer prepared for every single question and then some.

Hermann would chalk it all up to Newton’s  _rock-star flamboyance_  bravado if Newton hadn’t led him to suspect otherwise. As it is, it’s clear that he has done this sort of thing before.

Hermann waits until they make it back to their hotel room, and Newton is cracking open the overpriced minibar–for celebratory off-brand sodas, he said–before he accosts Newton.

“So,” he says, at Newton’s hunched-over back. “Will you tell me what you meant now?”

Newton rises to his feet too quickly and knocks his head on the top of the fridge. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, and Hermann winces in sympathy. “Ow. Tell you what I meant about what?” He presses one of the soda cans to the spot he’d just hit.

“Being on television before,” Hermann says.

A very strange look flits across Newton’s face. “Uh,” he says. “You know. Those interviews I did years ago, back in 2013 or something.”

Hermann does remember, now that Newton mentions it. It’d been around the time they’d started corresponding. Newton had gone on television to voice his support for the kaiju being extraterrestrial in origin, and everyone’d taken one look at him–twenty-three, short, pink streaks in his hair, piercings, Buddy Holly glasses with a crack running across the bottom of one lens–and ruthlessly mocked him for weeks to come. Then invited him back to more talk shows to mock him some more. “Ah,” Hermann says. “I do remember.”

It doesn’t feel entirely the truth–Newton still looks oddly shifty, like he’s concealing something from Hermann–but Hermann feels guilty for making Newton relive a bad memory anyway, so he drops it.

“Soda?” Newton says. He offers the one not pressed to his forehead, but the act seems to remind him of  _why_  he pressed the other to his forehead in the first place. “Fucking hope this doesn’t bruise,” he says, darkly. Then he bats his eyelashes. “Will you kiss it for me?”

Hermann beckons Newton over.

* * *

Two years later, the conversation has slipped from Hermann’s mind entirely. He and Newton have better things to do, after all, besides give television interviews about their work during the war and make appearances at galas which require them to buy new ties and dryclean out cocktail sauce. They’re teaching again, and working on compiling their wartime research in their free time (three books–individual and joint), and, most importantly, enjoying  _each_ _other_. (Newton is skilled in a lot of areas in which Hermann is not, and he’s more than happy to share those skills with Hermann.)

Then one day, Hermann walks in to his eleven-AM lecture to find half of his students huddled around a single cell phone. They snap up, guiltily, to his attention, but only after Hermann has to resort to knocking his cane against the wood of his podium and clearing his throat repeatedly.

“…Yes?” Hermann says.

None of them speak. Then, after a few shared glances, the boy who’s phone it is says “We found your husband’s old TV show.”

Hermann furrows his brow. “You must be mistaken,” he says. “Newton’s never—”

The boy holds up his phone.

 

“When were you going to tell me?” Hermann says, the instant he walks through their apartment door that afternoon. Newton had off today, which means he spent the day running errands and finishing up household chores (taking out the trash, loading the dishwasher). He’s also started dinner, as the pot boiling over on the stove and Newton’s bright pink apron suggest.

“Hi, babe,” Newton says. He turns down the burner and smiles over his shoulder. “Tell you what?”

“Into the Wild with Newt,” Hermann says, ominously, and Newton blanches.

 

The video had not, truthfully, been very embarrassing. More  _endearing_  than anything, though with terrifically poor camera quality. (Nothing like the clips of Newton at twenty-three they’d featured on Buzzfeed for days after word got out that  _that_  was the Dr. Newton Geiszler who almost fried his brain to help save the world.) Newton had been no older than ten, with coke-bottle glasses and a missing front tooth, and it’d featured him on a cheap soundstage with equally cheap (and clearly hand-painted) cardboard safari sets, along with a few oversized ferns, as he squeaked excitedly about a type of iguana. The whole thing had been no longer than twenty minutes.

What more: there were  _more_  of them. Nearly thirty more. All featuring a tiny, freckled Newton going on and on about different amphibians and reptiles and insects, often with the amphibian or reptile or insect in question resting in the palm of his hand or (in the case of a lazy-looking snake) curled around his shoulders.

Hermann is charmed. Newton is not.

“I was  _eight_ ,” he moans, hiding his face in his hands as Hermann clicks play on yet another. “It was a public access thing. My uncle made the sets.”

On Hermann’s laptop screen, Newton laughs as a fat tree frog eats a dead cricket from his fingers.

“You were  _adorable_ , darling,” Hermann teases. “Look at your  _safari hat_.”

Newton swipes for the laptop, but Hermann holds it out of his reach; meanwhile, eight-year-old Newton kisses the frog’s head with a big grin. “How’d you even find this, anyway?” Newton huffs, even redder than before. “I deleted them off everywhere.”

“My students showed me,” Hermann says. He pauses the video to scroll to the YouTube channel name; it looks as if it might be the network Newton’s television show aired on decades ago. The uploads themselves are only a few months old. “I reckon they found the old recordings and uploaded them.” He adds, heavily sarcastic, “Since you’re such a  _rockstar_  now.”

Newton hides his face in Hermann’s shoulder. “Turn it  _offfff_.”

Hermann shuts the laptop. For now. He doesn’t stop grinning. “You should revive it. Do you still have the sets?”

“You’re the worst,” Newton says. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I married you.”


	181. not-exactly-hate-sex (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> fic prompt where newton and hermann try to have hate sex but they're so bad at the hate part that at the end they're like wait a sec we're in love!!

One minute (the minute following an unfortunate collision of Newt’s small and newest specimen tank with Hermann’s desk, and the subsequent casualty of a  _great deal_ of Hermann’s neatly-typed equations), they’re at each other’s throats, Newt craning up on the tips of his ratty boots to shout curses at Hermann while Hermann gesticulates, wildly, with his cane and shouts even louder than Newt; the next (because things always progress  _rapidly_ when it comes to Newt and Hermann), Hermann is grabbing Newt by his tie and shoving him against the wall (sexy) and kissing him angrily (even sexier). 

“Is this hate sex?” Newt pants. “Is this what we’re doing?” 

Hermann grabs a fistful of Newt’s hair and yanks, hard; tears spring to Newt’s eyes. “Is it?”

 _Is_ it? Hermann pulled Newt to the filthy floor of the lab, angrily, and he sucked a fierce bruise into Newt’s neck as he made fast work of his shirt, his jeans (and his  _absurd little tie_ , Hermann said), and they’d certainly shouted at each other enough while Hermann spread Newt open with fingers and some medical lube (dug up from the bottom of the mandatory first aid kit)–faster, you bastard, Newt growled, more, more, and Hermann smacked his thigh and called him a horrible little man, but he did stick in another finger. It must be hate sex. They’ve never so much as kissed before today, and now they’re having sex on the lab floor. Hate sex on the lab floor, to be technical. What a novelty. 

Newt doesn’t really hate Hermann, but Hermann seems to hate him, so he’s fine with going along with it. He kicks his heel into the small of Hermann’s lower back–still clothed, though Newt managed to untuck a large segment of his shirt while they made out earlier–and scowls. “Fuck me already.”

This seems to be the wrong move to make. The kick is gentle–Newt’s not exactly strong–but it makes Hermann wince, visibly, and the fingers he’s curling in Newt immediately still. Newt’s exaggerated anger fades away. He pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Oh, shit, Hermann,” he says, “did I hurt you?”

The look on Hermann’s face (a strained, barely-concealed grimace) says it all, but  _he’s_  not angry, either. “A bit,” he admits.

“I’m sorry,” Newt babbles, “I was trying to be sexy, shit–it was totally an accident–you wanna switch spots?” It’s gotta be hurting Hermann to kneel on the floor like this, anyway; not only is it filthy (the janitor gave up on them long ago), but it’s hard, and freezing, and even Newt is starting to feel stiff.

Hermann hesitates, but then nods; Newt carefully flips them so Hermann is on his back instead. He straddles his skinny thighs. “Better?” he says, and remembers, belatedly, that this is meant to be hate sex. He fixes another scowl in place. “Uh. You were taking too long.”

Hermann is staring at him with big eyes, pupils wide and dark. He settles his hand on Newt’s hip. He has to wet his lips, twice, before he speaks. “Get on with it then, Newton.”

(Newt likes the way Hermann says his name.)

Newt places one hand on Hermann’s chest as he sinks down onto him, slowly, and then starts to move his hips: aggressively, at first, huffing and scowling down at Hermann all the while, but it soon becomes clear that Hermann isn’t all-too-interested in retaliating the aggression. “Horrible little man,” Hermann repeats in a murmur, but it sounds more like a compliment than an insult. He grips Newt’s hip tighter. “Detestable,” he gasps, “and, ah–”

Watching Hermann’s long, pretty eyelashes flutter, his wide gash of a mouth open and close (like a fish), the red flush rising up, up his chest and neck, makes Newt realize he really,  _really_  doesn’t hate Hermann. He feels the opposite about Hermann, in fact. He likes Hermann. A lot. Hermann is intelligent; Hermann is funny; Hermann is Newt’s best friend (and Newt wouldn’t mind going a little beyond that). Hermann looks cute when he’s getting his dick ridden. “Hermann,” Newt wheezes out, semi-shocked at the realization, “dude, I don’t hate you.”

Hermann looks surprised. Then he looks pleased. “I don’t hate you, either, Newton.”

“Why are we, uh,” Newt says, “doing  _this_ , then?”

(Newt is having sex with Hermann.)

“I don’t know,” Hermann says. 

Newt stretches his left leg out, wider, and groans a little at the change in angle. “Do you wanna stop?” 

“Not really,” Hermann says. He struggles into a sitting position and winds one of his arms around Newt’s bare back. Their noses bump together. “This feels–very good,” he moans. “You’re doing–ah–you’re doing very well.”

Newt laughs, breathless, and then blushes a little, like he always does when Hermann spares him a  _rare_  compliment. “Thanks,” he says, and Hermann smiles lazily at him and shifts forward and presses his face into the crook of Newt’s neck. Hermann’s breath is hot, and when Newt rolls his hips, he feels it ghost over his sweaty skin in a series of irregular puffs. “Does it still hurt?” he continues.

Hermann presses an open-mouthed kiss to Newt’s collarbone, strangely tender, and mumbles out, “Does what still hurt?”

“Your back,” Newt says.

Hermann shakes his head. “No.” He drags his tongue over the skin he’d just kissed, then up Newt’s neck, all the way to his jaw, and Newt shivers, hard. “Mm, Newton…”

Newt wheezes out a little giggle. Not hate sex, then.


	182. overhearing thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> would you consider writing something where newt and hermann start hearing one another's thoughts? at first they think they're just fried out from drifting with a dying kaiju brain, but NOPE. surpriseeee you guys are legit in each other's heads.

Newt’s in the shower when he becomes distinctly aware his thoughts are not his own.

He lets it slide at first. Chalks it up to over-exhaustion. It’s been a long day, after all, sun-up through sun-down, Newt having spent it running this way and that way and finding kaiju brains and drifting with them and nearly being eaten (he’ll process that trauma later), and all he really wants to do is get all this  _grime_ off of himself. Most of it of questionable origin, some probably toxic. A hot shower, and he’ll finish off the bag of candy he has stowed in his bottom desk drawer in celebration, and then maybe pound on Hermann’s door for a bit until Hermann lets him in and they can…he doesn’t know, kiss or gossip or something. Hopefully kiss. Man, he wants to kiss Hermann. He’s wanted to kiss Hermann all night. He’s wanted to kiss Hermann before tonight, if he’s being honest.

Newt’s reaching for the bar of soap, and his train of thought derails from that bag of candy in his desk and cozying on up to Hermann in his big, comfortable bed (Newt’s seen it exactly once, and damn, if he doesn’t want to test it out, preferably with Hermann present) and kissing Hermann’s big, weird lips, to thoughts of his medication. Has he taken it today? He hasn’t. His blazer needs a wash–he’s bled on it, he’s sure–and he’ll need to dispose of the handkerchief in his pocket (it’s likely salvageable, but he’s not sure he wants to bother  _salvaging_ it). 

Newt stops reaching for the soap. “Huh,” he says.

I think I’ll need a shower, he also thinks. And  _sleep._

Newt  _knows_  he needs a shower, because he’s in the shower. He also knows that he’s fucking exhausted, and that he and Hermann literally melded minds today. He’s probably just….remembering some of Hermann’s thoughts from ages ago, because these thoughts are, indeed, distinctly Hermann-esque. Nothing to get hung up about, though. It’ll fade. Newt carries on with his nice shower like nothing happened.

When he’s finished toweling his hair, he puts on pajamas and  _does_ finish off the rest of that candy (he earned it) and then decides to run down and bother Hermann. They’d parted so quickly earlier, after Hermann had shyly initiated that hug; Newt didn’t have the time to do half the stuff he wanted to do with him. Hug him a little more. Or–you know–Newt just really, really wants to kiss the guy.

Hermann answers his door in a few knocks. To Newt’s surprise, he’s also toweling his hair. He looks worn-out, exhausted, but his face brightens when he sees Newt. “Newton,” he says. “Hello. Do you need something?”

Red iris. They match. They also match in their chosen sleepwear: old sweatpants, older t-shirt. Newt’s never seen Hermann in sweatpants before. He likes it.

“Uh,” Newt says. “Uh. Yes, I do.” His own shower comes back to him. “Hey, Hermann. Did you, uh, take your pain meds today?”

Hermann furrows his brow. “No,” he says. “I’ve only just remembered to. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Newt says.

Hermann invites him in. They don’t kiss,  _yet_ , but Hermann does wrap Newt in his arms and falls asleep spooning him, and Newt falls asleep being spooned, which is nice. A step above their usual violent animosity. 

Newt wakes up in Hermann’s arms, too, facing him this time, their noses bumping. Hermann is watching him with sleepy eyes. Beautiful, Newt thinks he hears Hermann say, and Newt blinks blearily a few times and smiles. He squeezes Hermann’s bicep affectionately. “Thanks,” he says. 

He can’t make out the fine details of Hermann’s features without his glasses, but he can make out enough to see Hermann’s brows crease with a frown. “Pardon?” he says.

Okay. Playing dumb. Probably too shy to repeat it aloud. “Nothing,” Newt says. Very carefully, he plants a kiss on Hermann’s mouth. “I think you’re beautiful, too, Hermann.” Even if Hermann is…a little blurry, at the moment.

Hermann startles at the kiss, but to Newt’s surprise, his frown only deepens afterwards. “Er. Newton. I didn’t say–”

“Hm?” Newt leaves another tiny kiss, this time at the corner of Newt’s mouth.

“Nevermind,” Hermann says, quickly, and he cups the side of Newt’s face and begins kissing him back.

They stay in bed until late afternoon, lazing around, occasionally touching the other’s hair or cheek or arms, when Hermann–surprisingly not Newt–finally becomes antsy. “Aw, come on,” Newt says, watching Hermann pull on a fresh pair of ugly slacks and a coordinating ugly button-up. He struggles to sit up, Hermann’s pristine bedsheet falling from his chest. “Don’t you wanna–” He waggles his eyebrows. “–fool around a little?”

“We have work,” Hermann says, shortly. 

“What work?” Newt says. He fumbles at the bedside until he finds his half-shattered glasses and crams them on his face. “We kinda _won_. We don’t have anymore work. C’mon, get back here.”

 _He can’t mean it_ , he thinks.  _He doesn’t really want me_.

And, Newt’s used to self-deprecating thoughts barging in uninvited and all–especially when it comes to Hermann–but this is a whole other ballpark. It’s not even  _relevant_. They’re not Newt’s thoughts, even unwanted. Hermann’s earlier remark ( _I didn’t say…_ ) comes back to Newt.

“Dude,” Newt says, and this time he sits up much straighter. “Holy shit. I think I’m reading your mind.”

Hermann doesn’t act as surprised as Newt expected. If anything, he looks embarrassed. “Oh, dear,” he says, and drops his hand from his half-buttoned shirt. “I was worried about that.”

“You were  _worried_ about that?”

“Well,” Hermann says. “I was certainly…thinking a lot of strange thoughts. Mostly about–myself.” He turns pink. Newt recalls the  _several_ minutes he spent debating what it’d be like to kiss Hermann in the shower the previous night. “But I assumed it was after-effects of our drift. That it would fade overnight.”

 _It didn’t_ , they think at the same time. And isn’t that weird?

Newt can’t be embarrassed like Hermann, though, because, well–

“This is the  _coolest_  thing that’s ever happened to us,” Newt says. Even cooler than drifting with a kaiju to save the world. He screws up his eyes and thinks very hard; distantly, he can…overhear? Hermann’s thoughts about how dumb Newt looks. “Okay. What number am I thinking of?”

“Sixty-nine,” Hermann says, immediately, and–grinning delightedly–Newt opens his eyes in time to catch Hermann’s eyeroll. “Though, strictly speaking, I don’t think I needed to read your mind to know that.”

“Haha, yeah,” says Newt. “This is some X-Men shit. I love it. It’s so  _awesome_.”

Is it? Hermann thinks, skeptical.

“It is,” Newt asserts. “Oh, hold on.”  _It is_ , he thinks.  _Testing, testing. Can you read me? Hermann Gottlieb is a hottie._

Hermann winces. “Ugh. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Come back to bed,” Newt repeats.  _I’ll kiss it better,_ he thinks.

Hermann grumbles, but he hooks his cane on his bedpost and slips back under the covers. They’ll figure this all out later. Right now, Newt’s kind of enjoying it.


	183. phone sex (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> i have a soft spot for phone sex stuff, so like hermann buys his first vibrator and drinks maybe a little too much to build up the nerve to use it and ends up calling newt bc "his voice calms him" but that may or may not have just been an excuse to get newt on the phone

Masturbation, for Hermann, has always been a largely perfunctory affair. Stress relief. Part of a routine, relegated to furtive strokes with his hand and some discount body wash in the shower once or twice a week. He doesn’t make a big show out of it. He doesn’t use anything but his hand. His fantasies are rarely even that elaborate (he doesn’t  _allow_  himself anything that elaborate): the gentle touch of the hand of another man (nameless, faceless, messy-haired and reckless), the recollection of the young man (twenty-one) he’d kissed on a date when he was twenty, and as of recently, Newton. Newton smiling; Newton laughing; Newton allowing Hermann to ruck up his t-shirt and stroke his hand down his soft, soft chest, teasing him gently, touching him in return. 

(Hermann has one printed photograph of Newton, sent along with his friend’s usual weekly correspondence some months ago: round stubbled cheeks, thick glasses, mischievous smile, freckles. Hermann has other photographs of Newton saved to his phone, pulled from various social media sites—Hermann is  _not_ obsessed—as well, a single video of the man bookmarked in his browser. Newton is very pleasing to look at.)

In fact, these recent fantasies about Newton are part of the reason why Hermann is ruminating over the whole idea of masturbation in the first place.

They’re becoming a  _problem_.

Lately, all Hermann can think about is Newton. His routine is entirely shot. He doesn’t bring himself off in the shower anymore—or, he still does, but it’s in  _addition_  to other occasions on which he brings himself off. He masturbates in the mornings, after he’s had a wet dream about Newton (which are distressingly frequent). He masturbates at night, when he can’t get Newton’s latest correspondence out of his head. And it’s true, the fantasies Newton stars in are fairly mundane, scarcely even that erotic, but they’re becoming less so each time. Hermann stroking a hand down Newton’s chest becomes Hermann toying with Newton’s nipple with his fingers, his teeth, as Newton squirms underneath him. Newton smiling and laughing becomes Newton beckoning him close, begging, breathlessly, for Hermann to touch him, to kiss him, to undress him, to—well. 

It’s the reason for Hermann’s current state of near constant sexual frustration. It’s also the reason for why—after years of relying solely upon his fist—Hermann has finally caved in and bought himself a vibrator.

It’s fairly small. It’s fairly discrete. Smooth. A nice shade of dark purple. Enough settings that Hermann won’t get bored with it. (And it was on sale.) The packaging it came in was discrete, too: a simple black box, with not even the company’s name written on the side. It didn’t mean Hermann wasn’t still mortified when he opened up his mailbox and found it shoved in, neatly, alongside a few bills and a new letter from Newton, and hurry up to his flat as quickly as possible with it tucked under his arm.

The letter lies, unopened, on his bed. The package lies, opened, next to it. Hermann lies next to both, vibrator in hand, stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, wondering how on earth he can possibly mentally boost himself up for this. 

His solution is to break into a bottle of brandy his brother sent him for his last birthday and have a drink. Or two. Enough so that the overwhelming buzz of anxiety making his skin crawl is replaced with a  _calming_  static instead. A more gentler buzz. The vibrator’s buzzing, too, though Hermann hasn’t touched himself with it yet. He’s merely holding it a few centimeters from his face, considering it.

In his peripheral vision, Hermann catches sight of Newton’s letter. Newton.

Maybe Hermann could use the vibrator on Newton. Maybe Newton would like to watch Hermann use it on himself. Maybe Newton would use it on  _Hermann_. Maybe he would start by pressing it to Hermann’s chest, and trail it down, down, past his pubic hair, past his prick, nudge Hermann’s legs apart…

He should call Newton. That seems like an excellent idea, frankly. The line is ringing before Hermann even realizes he’s fumbled with his cell phone and dialed Newton’s number (and before he can second-guess himself). The line continues to ring. He hasn’t considered time zones; it’s late for Hermann, but Newton may still be lecturing.

Newton picks up before Hermann can talk himself into hanging up. Hermann switches off the vibrator. “Hey, Hermann!” Newton says. He sounds delighted. Warmth flushes, pleasantly, down Hermann’s neck, to his chest, to pool in the pit of his stomach; his erection begins to stir to life already. Hermann is very easily wound up, and he is very easily  _un_ wound. 

“Newton,” Hermann says.

“Hey!” Newton repeats.

“Newton,” Hermann says again.

“Uh, yeah,” Newton says. “It’s me.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You okay, man? You sound…tired.”

“Yes,” Hermann says, quickly. “I needed—er.” He stares at the vibrator. “…Well. Your voice calms me.”

Newton laughs again, a little louder. “It  _calms_  you?”

Hermann was tipsy, but he’s begun to sober up, fast, and now he wonders, perhaps, if this wasn’t a very good idea. He flushes for an entirely different reason. “Please forget I called,” he sighs, and makes to hang up, but Newton says “Wait!”

Hermann puts the phone back to his ear. “Are you upset about something?” Newton continues.

“Not exactly,” Hermann says. He thumbs the vibrator. “A bit nervous.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

For a moment, Hermann debates making up a problem. Something to talk through with Newton. Instead—the brandy giving him a bit more courage, the possibility of Newton reciprocating any advances he might make too alluring to turn down—he throws caution into the wind. “I bought a vibrator,” he blurts out.

Newton drops his phone. At least, that’s what it sounds like: there’s a rush of air, a loud clatter, and then Newton swearing, loud, as he presses it back to his ear. “ _Jesus_ , Hermann. You bought—”

“A vibrator,” Hermann says.

“I heard you the first time!” Newton squeaks. “Why are you telling  _me_?”

He’s flustered. The notion pleases Hermann, oddly, especially seeing as Newton hasn’t hung up on him in a fit of embarrassment. (Maybe it’s not as one-sided as Hermann has always feared.) Hermann switches the vibrator back on. He decides to play coy. “I’ve never used one before,” he admits. “I’m not quite sure what to do. I thought  _you_  might’ve.” 

“Why—” Newton splutters, “you think I’m—I’d know—”

“You seem the type,” Hermann says.

“Oh, boy,” Newton says, still in that same, high little squeak. “Okay. Uh. Well. I do. I have, I mean. But.” There’s a noise, as if he’s readjusting his cell phone. When he speaks again, his voice is significantly more hushed. “I’m kinda in my office right now, dude. At campus. If I wasn’t—”

“I’ll be fast,” Hermann says. “I usually am.”

Newton swears again. “Holy shit. Uh. Okay.” Another small rustling noise. “Okay. Okay. I locked the door. Uh.” He laughs again, far more embarrassed. “I usually start at my, uh, chest. Then work down.”

Hermann presses the vibrator to one of his nipples; the resulting sensation, and the knowledge that he’s doing this at Newton’s command, makes his whole body shudder, a moan slip from his lips. “ _Ah_.” He slides it over to the other and draws out the same response, only this moan is a little louder.

“Jeez,” Newton says, weakly. “Then. Uh. It depends on what kind it is. Sometimes I just kinda—press it to my dick for a bit.”

Hermann slicks his hand up with a small bit of lubricant (also new, ordered alongside the vibrator at the website’s recommendation) and gives himself a few light tugs. Just enough to slick himself up there, too. He pulls his briefs down, neatly, around his thighs. He tucks his phone under his ear. He presses the vibrator to his erection.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasps, almost instantly, “oh, Newton—”

“Sorry,” Newton wheezes out, “I gotta—” He swears, again, and then Hermann hears his breathing going harsh, labored, coming out in sharp pants and trailing into little whines. Newton is touching himself, Hermann thinks; Newton is touching himself to  _Hermann_. Hermann switches the vibrator up a setting.

He’s overwhelmed by it all very quickly: the vibrations travelling through his prick, making his whole body tingle, Newton’s whimpering moans in his ear ( _Hermann, holy shit, oh, wow_ ), the very  _thought_  of what Newton must look like on the other end—his cheeks flushed red, his eyes screwed shut tight behind his glasses, his teeth digging into his pretty pink bottom lip to keep from being too loud, to keep from drawing attention to himself, hunched over his cluttered desk with his hand shoved down his jeans. If Hermann were there—if Hermann could touch him (or, better yet, kiss him)…

Newton comes first, with a low, keening whine; Hermann quickly grabs a wad of tissues with the hand not clutching the vibrator and presses it to himself to catch his own release. His phone tumbles to the mattress. He drifts, pleasantly, into the fuzzy, lethargic lull of his afterglow—the best of any orgasm he’s ever had before—and only comes back to himself when Newton’s pants turn to low swearing once more, audible even from where Hermann’s phone rests. Hermann rolls to his side to press his ear to the receiver. “Holy shit,” Newton says, with a little giggle. “Holy shit, Hermann. Ha. Wow.”

“Mm?” Hermann says. He realizes he’s neglected to switch off the vibrator. He reaches out a hand to do so now; his limbs feel like lead.

“That was,” Newton says, “uh, hot.”

“It was,” Hermann agrees. He smiles lazily, though he knows Newton can’t see it. “Thank you.”

They’re both quiet. “You wanna do that again some time?” Newton says.

“I’d like that,” Hermann says.


	184. “I’m trying to decide if this thing I did is incredibly stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> “I’m trying to decide if this thing I did is incredibly stupid.” “What happened? what did you do?” “Well… I fell in love (with you).” (newmann prompt, again)
> 
> (stolen for my regency au! hehehe)

June is uncharacteristically harsh this year, hot and sunny and devoid of rainfall, and inside the Gottlieb house—despite its arching ceilings, its airy halls, the windows that Hermann himself went around and flung open in a fit of sweat-damp exhaustion the night before—is even hotter. No amount of refilling the water pitchers or retreating deep into the cool, dark library will do. Not even the library remains cool and dark.

Newton has come, however, as he promised he would, which lightens Hermann’s spirits somewhat. Misery loves company, if anything. Newton lays sprawled across the great chaise he favors in the library now, stripped out of his boots and waistcoat and cravat, stockinged feet propped up on a cushion, arm—the sleeve rolled up to his elbow—flung across his perspiring brow. Just over his eyeglasses. “We need to get out of here,” he says.

His throat is bared. The beginnings of his strange inkjob poke out from his unbuttoned collar. Hermann is sprawled in an arm chair of his own, fanning himself with an Encyclopedia, and he cannot tear his eyes away. “Hm?”

Newton pushes himself up. “We need to get out of here,” he repeats. “I’m boiling.”

“Where do you suggest we go?” Hermann says. He drags his eyes up, lazily, to Newton’s face.

“Not an inkling of an idea,” Newton says. He sticks each foot back into his boots, though he does not bother slipping his waistcoat back on or fixing his buttons. “C’mon. Outside.”

Hermann groans in protest, but he allows Newton to pull him to his feet and shove his cane at him; he can’t imagine a walk outside, in the sun, will do any good. There isn’t even a breeze.

Newton knows the forests better than Hermann does without a doubt, especially the forests behind the Gottlieb estate: Newton travels through them, quietly, on foot, each occasion he and Hermann have set an illicit meeting in the dead of night. He leads Hermann through them now, down a well-worn dirt path, past fallen logs and moss and boulders, deeper and deeper until the patches of sunlight streaming through the canopy of leaves above their heads become scarce. It  _is_  far cooler in the shade. Hermann will grant Newton that. “Do you know where we’re going?” Hermann pants. He’s had to rest, momentarily, against a tree; his leg does not usually ache him terribly on long walks, but the ground is uneven with tree roots and slopes up and down at random.

“Of course,” Newton says. He stands a few feet in front of Hermann, squinting deeper into the trees. “Ah. See.” He points.

Hermann sees nothing but a small clearing ahead, a bit sunnier than most of what they’ve been walking through. “What is it?”

Newton doubles back and takes Hermann’s arm to lead him along gently. The closer they get to the clearing, the louder the sound of running water becomes, and soon, they stand at the edge of a stream. “I found this last month,” Newton declares, sounding delighted. “Fell into it while I was walking home.”

“You  _fell_?” Hermann says, turning to him in mild alarm. Newton flashes him a smile.

“I’m still in one piece, aren’t I?” Newton says. He drops Hermann’s arm and begins to fish around in the small satchel he’d packed discreetly and brought along with them: he pulls out a sheet (one of the Gottliebs’  _nice_  sheets, clearly liberated from the linen closet off the washroom, though when Hermann is not sure), and spreads that on the grass, then sets down the makings of a rudimentary picnic atop that. (Food just as clearly liberated from the Gottlieb pantry, Hermann is quite sure.) “Here, have a seat.”

Hermann obliges gratefully, loosening his cravat and helping himself to grapes and a canteen of what turns out to be lemonade. Both  _are_  technically his, after all. But Newton does not sit next to him, as Hermann expected, choosing, instead, to settle his hands on his hips and continue to admire the stream. “Are you not joining me?” Hermann says.

“I will,” Newton says. “Shortly.”

He shucks off his boots once more, then his stockings, then—to Hermann’s great consternation—his breeches and linen shirt, leaving him standing before Hermann in nothing but his plain white undergarments, broad, inked chest bare. “Newton,” Hermann near-squeaks. He averts his eyes in modesty.

Newton casts him a roguish smile. He twists his index finger in the tie strings of his undergarments and tugs lightly. “I can take off more, if you’d like it.”

“No,” Hermann says, quickly, blushing pink and fumbling the grapes. They fall to the sheet and upend his tin cup of lemonade. “No, ah—”

Newton turns away with a wink. As Hermann attempts to mop up the lemonade with his handkerchief, Newton begins to wade into the clear water of the stream, barefoot, hoisting his undergarments up past his knees. “Bit cold,” he says, with a low hum. “‘S perfect. You should come in, too.  _Ow_.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Stepped on a rock. Should’ve kept my shoes on. Oh, look!’

Newton dives down, plunging his arm into the water, but emerges empty-handed. “Damn,” he says. “Thought I saw a turtle.”

“Please don’t harass any turtles,” Hermann says, a half-hearted scold, because, truthfully, he’s too distracted by the small droplets of water now glistening on Newton’s chest to care about turtles.

Newton does not respond, his attention caught by a bright green dragonfly that zips by his head. “Wow,” he says with a whistle, pushing up his eyeglasses as he tracks it. “Look at that. Beautiful.”

“Mm,” Hermann says. One of the droplets curves down Newton’s right pectoral, down over the small swell of his stomach, and disappears in the waistband of his undergarments. Another begins a similar journey. After Hermann tracks four, he realizes, belatedly, that Newton is still talking about the dragonfly. Specifically its diet. “Fascinating,” Hermann interjects quickly, when it seems like the appropriate time to.

The ghost of a smirk crosses Newton’s face. Hermann had not been that subtle. “Indeed,” Newton says.

Their conversation lulls into a comfortable silence. Newton continues to splash around in the stream, occasionally plucking small rocks from the sandy banks and shoving them in his pockets, while Hermann—angled so his body remains in the shade, while his face remains in the sunlight—stretches out on the length of the sheet and shuts his eyes. (A quick examination of Newton’s satchel proved he had packed one of the tomes from Hermann’s personal library as well, but Hermann decided a nap, not reading, was far better suited to today.) In the distance, Hermann hears birdsong. Cool, and contented, and with Newton so close by, Hermann admits to himself it really is quite nice.

After a while, Newton tires of the stream and flops down at Hermann’s side with a little grunt. Hermann can feel his sharp breaths against his neck, and a hand—damp, and gritty with sand—untucking his blouse and sliding against his skin; he does not open his eyes. “You’re wet,” Hermann murmurs.

“Am I?” Newton says, low in his ear. His hand creeps higher. His lips find their way to Hermann’s throat.

Hermann swats at him. “Not here,” he warns. “Someone will see. Not—”

Not outside the confines of Hermann’s bed chamber, with the window Hermann keeps unlatched for Newton at all hours should Newton decide to climb up the lattice; the Gottlieb family library, with its inviting hearth and and dark, dark corners and convenient lock for when Newton and Hermann need to  _discuss_   _research_ after a meal away from Hermann’s father’s prying eyes. Not outside the seclusion of night, even, beneath the stars, where they may do whatever they please until the pink of dawn breaches the horizon. But Newton does not retreat. His hand settles on Hermann’s sternum.

“Kiss me,” he begs, warm over the shell of Hermann’s ear. “C’mon, Hermann.”

Newton’s face is hovering mere centimeters above Hermann’s own when Hermann finally opens his eyes. He’s freed his hair from the confines of its usual braid, and it tumbles over his shoulders, catching the sparse sunlight. His tongue pokes out between his lips. His glasses hang on the end of his freckled nose. Hermann presses his fingers to the nape of Newton’s neck, his lips curling into an affectionate smile. “Dear boy,” he says. He cannot deny Newton anything.

They kiss languidly in the small patch of sunlight, their hands roaming over the expanses of each other’s skin, under clothing, through hair, until the noise of a twig snapping nearby startles them both; they turn quickly (the fingers of Hermann’s right hand tangled in Newton’s long hair, the fingers of his left pressed to his soft abdomen) to see a doe standing on the opposite bank of the stream. Her wide eyes are fixed on them. She darts away when Newton laughs.

“Scared the hell out of me,” Newton says, and—his heart racing comically fast—Hermann nods in agreement.

Ever restless, ever unable to remain confined to one activity for too long, Newton parts from Hermann’s arms with a last long, lingering kiss and busies himself with plucking wildflowers from the patch of grass to the right of the sheet and winding them into a chain. Hermann props himself up on his elbow to watch. He has not bothered tucking his shirt back into his breeches, nor has he bothered doing his collar up or tightening his cravat; his neck stings from where Newton got bold and nipped at his skin gently at a spot that would not be in any danger of discovery. The overall sensation is one of  _debauchery_. Reckless hedonism. Hermann finds he enjoys it.

“I’m trying to decide if this thing I did is incredibly stupid,” he declares.

Newton glances up from his flower chain and readjusts his eyeglasses. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What happened?” he says. “What did you do?”

“Well,” Hermann says. “I fell in love with you.”

Newton laughs again, but Hermann does not miss the blush that stains his cheeks and the tips of his ears, nor the way he fumbles the flower chain and errs on his next knot of a stem. “You old romantic,” he teases. “And it’s  _very_  stupid, for the record. I didn’t think you were capable of making such errors in judgement.”

“I suppose it is,” Hermann says, lips twitching up. Then he prods at the chain. “What is that for?”

Newton ties the last stem around the head of the first wildflower, creating a perfect loop. He settles it atop Hermann’s head. It’s a big large, and sags down near Hermann’s eyes, but they smell sweet and Hermann’s mouth goes dry nonetheless at the gesture. “You,” Newton says. He leans in and pecks a kiss at Hermann’s forehead.


	185. not-so-secret-married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I need more secret husband fics where it's not really a secret, newt and herms just don't tell anyone. Who finds out? People in the loccent? Students on the uni? I don't care, i just need them to be secret husbands. Maybe hermann is drunk and tells someone? It's up to you, i just really like drunk hermann! Please maria juan you're my only hope

Hermann isn’t difficult by nature when he’s drunk, per say–he isn’t an angry drunk, or a weepy drunk, or the kind that falls asleep sitting up wherever he is to leave Newt to drag him off to bed like a frumpy toddler–but he gets so goddamn affectionate with Newt that he sure as hell becomes an distraction. The instant Hermann has a single drink every single carefully constructed layer of professionalism–and deep-rooted repression–comes flying off. Alongside most of his layers.

He’s even unbuttoned his  _collar_ tonight, the hussy.

But drunk Hermann is needy Hermann. Lovesick Hermann. A Hermann who will clutch Newt’s hands to his chest and inform him, very earnestly, with his big brown doe-eyes shining, that he wants to marry Newt, and who will nearly break into overjoyed tears when Newt informs him they’ve been married for a decade already, thanks, no need to go at it again, first time was expensive enough, and then try to kiss him but faceplant against his shoulder instead.

Drunk Hermann is also the kind of Hermann who never shuts up about Newt to anyone who will listen. It’s flattering, of course, Newt loves when Hermann dotes praise on him, but–tonight’s a little embarrassing an occasion for it. End of the school year party for the physics faculty and some students, Newt as Hermann’s plus one of choice, doesn’t exactly scream a rip-roaring good time. Even if there is free wine. Hermann’s colleagues are a little…stuffy. Physicists, you know. No where near as cool as biologists.

Hermann lets loose after one glass of prosecco.

“It’s certainly  _warm_  in here,” he says first, which is when the collar comes undone. He eyes up Newt, next–his bright purple tie, his tight jeans–and tucks himself in, noticeably closer, to Newt’s side, his cane continuously jostling at Newt’s ankles. “How long have you had  _those_?” he says, not looking up from the jeans, and Newt has to remind him they’re the pair he wears  _every day._ Another half-glass. A palm sliding down into Newt’s back pocket. A gentle squeeze. (Newt squeaks.) “They fit you very well,” low in his ear, followed by a little nip of teeth.

This is when Newt forces Hermann into a seat.

He very nearly wrestles the wine glass away from Hermann, too, but one of Hermann’s colleagues decides it’s the perfect moment to sit at their table and make small talk, and–at risk of creating a scene–Newt goes along with it. Talks about how they like their new positions and shit like that, even as he watches, with a low thrum of anxiety in his stomach, Hermann finish off his glass out of the corner of his eye. 

Then Hermann starts to grope his thigh under the table. Hermann after one drink is affectionate; Hermann after two drinks is  _all hands._ “Newton,” he says, and the other professor shuts his mouth abruptly. “My dear boy. My dear Newton.” Fingers stroking up through Newt’s hair, down past the curve of his neck.

“Easy, honey,” Newt says, and laughs, a bit awkwardly, as he places Hermann’s hand back onto the table. Hermann’s colleague is staring pointedly at the ceiling. Newt lowers his voice. “Discreet, okay?” More for Hermann’s sake than his own. Hermann is normally veryembarrassed about PDA, or admitting to people who aren’t Newt that he has emotions. If Newt keeps him in check now it’ll be less for him to fuss over tomorrow morning.

“Discreet,” Hermann agrees. He gives Newt a large, sappy smile, and then immediately starts stroking his hair again. (The other professor slips away.) “Mm. Your eyes are gorgeous.”

“Hermann,” Newt mumbles.

“And your lovely  _mouth_ ,” Hermann says, distinctly less…innocent, and Newt flushes. “I want to–”

Newt clears his throat very, very loudly. “Alright,” he says, just as loudly. “Let’s get you some water. Okay?” Hermann nods; Newt pats his hand and wriggles out of his touch. “Be back in five. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

He makes a beeline for the drinks table and grabs no less than three water bottles, but Hermann’s already managed to find himself new company by the time he gets back. Two of his students, it looks like–graduating seniors, each in semi-formal wear, each holding a small class of wine and staring at Hermann with polite bewilderment. Newt squeezes back in next to Hermann and fixes a grin on his face. “I know,” he says to the students. “It’s weird to see him like this. Like watching your grandma get drunk or something.”

“Newton!” Hermann says, a bit delayed. “We were.” He blinks. “Ah. Talking about their postgraduate plans. Hello.”

“Here’s your water,” Newt says, and nudges his arm with a bottle. “Drink up, okay? You’re gonna be pissed at me tomorrow if you don’t.”

Hermann bats his eyelashes and obeys him, though it takes him a few seconds to unscrew the lid off the bottle and Newt has to help. Newt nods at the kids while Hermann spills most of it down his front. “Hi,” he says. Then, to the shorter one, “Did I have you in my class?”

“I think,” the kid says.

“Cool,” Newt says.

Hermann drops the empty water bottle to the table. He flings his arm around Newt’s shoulder. Oh boy, Newt thinks. “Have you met my husband?” Hermann says.

“Hi,” Newt says, for what feels like the third time in a few seconds.

Both of the kids swivel to stare at him again. Hermann stares at him, too, though in a distinctly different way. “My lovely Newton,” he sighs. 

“You’re married to  _him_?” one kid blurts out, though he has the decency to look mortified a second later.

“Yes,” Hermann says. He smiles, a bit dazed. “Certainly I’ve mentioned it before.”

“Uh, no.”

Newt can understand the confusion. Aside from Hermann’s complete refusal to talk about his personal life in any capacity (he won’t even tell his students when his birthday is), Newt and Hermann argue  _most of the time_ when they’re together on campus. They argue when Newt drops by Hermann’s classes. They argue in the halls. They argue over their lunches. They argue in their offices. It would be weird, really, if they didn’t–they work better this way, anyway. Bad habits picked up at the lab all those years ago. By all accounts, and to all bystanders, they probably look like they hate each other.

At home, though, when it’s just them– “Yep,” Newt says, swelling with pride. “I’m his husband. Hermann’s  _my_ husband.” Hermann sways forward and presses a kiss to his cheek. Goddamn, Newt loves him. “We should probably get you home soon, though, okay, babe?”


	186. porno round 2 (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> screaming-mimis asked:  
> Maria the one and only listen... your newt and hermann make a porno au.... its haunting me.... would you ever considering writin some more juicy details ?? ily ily
> 
> Anonymous said:  
> Can u expand on what Hermann was thinking during Newt’s dirty talk in that “"adult video”“ ask? :D

“It’s sexy,” Newton says. “I promise.”

Hermann narrows his eyes at him skeptically. He’s not raised his hand yet, like Newton is, judging by his expression, clearly hoping. “Are you certain?” he says. “It doesn’t feel very–” His cheeks bloom with heat at the word, “sexy.”

“People like watching it,” Newton says. “And, you know–” He mimes something, obscene, with his fist, and winks; Hermann raises his eyes to the cinderblock ceiling in mortification. “ _Like_ watching it.” He shrugs, though his current position–bent over Hermann’s knees–makes it a bit awkward. “It’s kind of fun, too.”

Hermann’s eyes shoot back down. “You mean you’ve–”

Newton grins up at him, cheeky. “Once or twice. Ex-boyfriend was into it. Doing it to me, I mean. What about you?”

Hermann works his jaw, swallowing around nothing. He feels the red flush spread to the tips of his ears. “I haven’t–er.”

Newton is aware, at this point, that Hermann is anything but skilled in the realm of sex. Anything but experienced. Their last go at this proved more than he would’ve liked it to, though Newton seemed to catch on enough, at least, to spare Hermann the embarrassment of admitting it aloud. “No sweat,” Newton says quickly. His grin fades to something a little more sincere, and Hermann’s heart thumps pitifully. (Weak-kneed over a single act of kindness.) “We’ll figure out if you like it, too.” Newton wriggles his hips. “Now get to it. I wanna be done before the mess hall closes.”

Hermann expects it’ll take him quite some time to get into the scenario, and doubts Newton will get want he wants, which means cold lab fridge leftovers for both of them again; nevertheless, they switch on the camera, which is already angled towards them, with a small handheld remote. Hermann doesn’t think they’ve moved the tripod from the last time.

The last time they had sex.

The last time Hermann spread Newton Geiszler’s warm thighs and pushed into Newton’s warm body and Newton moved on top of him and said wonderfully dirty things that made Hermann’s whole body feel like it was on fire. That made him almost forget, for a moment, that they didn’t usually do these sorts of things together. 

The memory stirs something white-hot and pleasurable in the pit of Hermann’s stomach; his mouth feels dry. Perhaps it won’t take him that long after all. Especially not with Newton presenting such a pretty sight beneath him: shirt rucked up enough to expose his strong back, jeans pulled tight over his rump, the elastic of his bright green boxers poking out over his waistband. Hermann will need to pull those jeans down, and then those boxers. Should he remove both at once? One a time, perhaps, enough to tease Newton–no, not to tease, to  _build up suspense_ for the hypothetical viewer. Of course. What else.

“You planning on starting any time soon?” Newton says.

“Of course,” Hermann says.

He places one hand over the curve of Newton’s ass, right over the seam down the center of the denim. Newton squirms. “You have–big hands,” Newton says, strangely breathy. Then, a little less serious, and with another grin tossed over his shoulder, “And ears.”

Hermann’s mouth tilts down. He tugs on one of his earlobes with his free hand, suddenly self-conscious. “Do I?” he says.

"They’re cute,” Newton says.

They sit in mildly uncomfortable silence.

“I mean,” Newton says, “they’re–Jesus, can you just spank me already?”

Hermann is grateful for the distraction. Without warning, he delivers a single smack to Newt’s clothed ass as a test. Newton goes rigid with a little yelp. “ _Jeez_ ,” he says. “Wow. Okay. That was–ha.”

“Good?” Hermann says.

“Take my pants off. It’ll feel better,” Newton orders.

It takes a little bit of wriggling, but Hermann manages to get Newton’s jeans down around his thighs. Then–at a little look from Newton, a clear  _get on with it_ –Hermann swallows around nothing again and tugs his boxers down, too. It’s not the first time he’s seen Newton’s ass (he did, of course, very recently, stick exciting things like his fingers and his own genitalia inside of it) but it is still fairly imposing. 

There’s a freckle on the right cheek. Hermann is struck with the uncomfortable desire to bite at it. Two guys who like other guys making a quick buck, Newton said. Or something along those lines. Hermann clears his throat. “You’ve been bad,” he says, flatly, unable to stop his eyes from flicking up to the camera. “Er. Very bad.”

“Are you gonna punish me for it?” Newton purrs. He rubs himself down against Hermann’s thigh; he’s already getting excited, already growing hard. Hermann cannot imagine how he’ll act when he finally strikes skin-on-skin. (He’ll order Newton, perhaps, to rut off on his thigh once he’s riled up enough, smack at him again if he goes too slow, again if he goes too fast.)

Hermann clears his throat once more, and wets his bottom lip. “I suppose,” he says.

He raises his hand, poised to strike, and he hears Newton suck in a sharp breath.

Hermann lowers his hand a moment later. His ears have gone entirely red by now, he’s certain. “I’m sorry,” he says, as Newton’s shoulders–previously tense with anticipation–slump, and then he confesses, “I don’t–well, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Newton sits back up. “Aw, Hermann,” he says, pink-faced and clearly embarrassed himself. “Uh. Thanks. It’s fine. We don’t have to do that.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Just lie back and I’ll suck your dick or something instead, okay?”

“Oh,” Hermann says. “Yes. Ah. Okay.”


	187. composed top hermann round...4? (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> i know u've done it twice but your composed top hermann fics r the sexiest thing i've ever read. if it's not too much to ask, more please? and generally anything a bit dom sub. i will b eternally grateful

Today’s rendezvous starts as most of them do: Newton, bored, and Hermann, busy.

Or, rather, Hermann is not entirely busy. He was busy at  _first_ –plenty of equations to copy to paper, plenty of paperwork to sort into files and drawers and the like–but by the time Newton slinks in with a lazy grin on his face and his belt buckle undone, Hermann is very nearly ready to wrap up for the night. And ready to turn in, frankly. It’s been a long day, and his knee is stiff, and he can feel the beginnings of a headache spiking from his temples and the bridge of his nose. It’s why his heart sinks a bit when Newton immediately makes a beeline for his desk and plants his hands firmly on Hermann’s shoulders: he knows what Newton wants.

“Hi, honey,” Newton says, with a feather-light kiss to the top of his head. “What are you doing?”

“Work,” Hermann sighs.

Newton begins to knead at his shoulders; Hermann’s eyelids threaten to droop. “Sounds boring.” He runs his fingertips over the spot on Hermann’s neck that always makes him weak-kneed–something Newton  _loves_ exploiting–and Hermann cannot reign in his shiver. “That good?”

“It is,” Hermann admits. His knuckles have gone white around his pen. Newton’s fingers creep further up his neck to rest atop his scalp and massage soothingly, thumbs rubbing in gentle circles over his temples. Hermann drops his pen entirely and leans back into him with a soft moan. “Oh, darling, that’s  _lovely_.” Perhaps he was incorrect about what Newton wanted after all.

He’s not.

As soon as the massage began, it ends, and Newton is suddenly sliding up onto the edge of the desk instead. Right on top of Hermann’s work. He flicks open three of his buttons. (He’s not wearing his tie–Hermann did not notice that at first.) “Hermann,” Newton says, sing-song and light. More buttons open, and Newton bares his throat to him entirely. “I’m  _horny_.”

Perspiration gathers at Hermann’s brow. Newton is obnoxious and graceless in most things, but he’s  _never_ failed at seduction. Maybe Hermann’s just a pushover. “Are you?” Hermann says.

“Mm-hmm,” Newton says. He pulls Hermann’s hand up from where it rests on the desk (clenched into a fist), eases his fingers out ‘til they’re spread, and places it on his chest, over the exposed bit of his colorful skin. Colorful, sturdy, strong, warm. Hermann can feel Newton’s heart beating. Then Newton drags his hand lower; he begins to fumble around in his pockets for something. “Where’s–oh!”

He proudly displays what he’d been searching for–a few small packets of lube and a condom–and wiggles his eyebrows.

Hermann’s heart sinks further.

He  _does_ love having sex with Newton, but the act Newton clearly wants to engage in tonight–one of them taking the other against the desk–requires a certain amount of preparation and a certain amount of clean-up that Hermann’s, frankly, not sure he’s up to. He really, really just wants to go to bed. Maybe even take a hot shower. He wonders if Newton could be persuaded to join him. “Newton,” he says, hesitantly. “Er. Wouldn’t you prefer to do this in bed?”

“Nope,” Newton says, and he shivers as he rubs Hermann’s fingers over his nipple. “Ah. I wanna do it right here.”

“But it’d be more comfortable,” Hermann says, even as he pinches at the proffered nub the way he know Newton likes. “We’d–” Newton strips his shirt the rest of the way off and tosses it to the floor. “–have pillows, and I could, er–” Newton undoes the fly of his pants, exposing a growing wet spot on his boxers, and Hermann’s arousal twinges to life even before Newton flicks, teasingly, at Hermann’s own zipper and fly. “–lie down.”

This gives Newton pause. Guilt flashes, briefly, across his face. He drops Hermann’s hand and reels away. “Dude,” he says, “it’s cool if you don’t want to do anything now. You can just tell me.”

“No, darling,” Hermann says quickly, and he reaches out and grasps Newton’s hand. “Of course I do.” And it is the truth: he was on the fence before, but now, with Newton’s soft warm body so close, Newton practically begging for him–not so much.

But he is still feeling very, very lazy. (How to play it off?)

Hermann clears his throat. They’ve done this before with positive results; maybe Newton’ll be game for another go now. “I merely thought you’d want…” He fixes his eyebrows a bit sternly, his mouth into a thin line.

It takes hardly more than a second for Newton to catch on. “ _Oh_!” he says. “Oh, hell yes.”

He drags Hermann’s hand back to his chest and rubs it against himself with renewed vigor. Hermann, meanwhile, goes slack. Slumped back in his chair, hand limp, his knees parted a bit wider than before. He picks up his pen with his other hand. “Just don’t make a mess,” he warns Newton.

“Of course not,” Newton says. “I won’t–yeah!”

Hermann fills out another half-page of graph paper with completely unnecessary equations before Newton gets bored of having his nipples played with. Or rather–before he gets bored of using Hermann’s hand to play with his nipples. He starts to creep Hermann’s hand up, after that, up his throat, up over his chin, moves two fingers up over his soft bottom lip and into his mouth. (Hermann startles only very briefly at the sensation.)

“Mmph,” Newton says. He darts his tongue between index and middle.

“Move over a little, will you?” Hermann says. Newton obliges. Hermann snags another piece of graph paper.

Newton’s tongue curls ‘round Hermann’s knuckle, and he moans again. He begins to rub at himself through his opened jeans at the little bulge in his boxers with his other hand. “No mess,” Hermann reminds him.

Newton rubs at himself faster. He pops Hermann’s fingers out of his mouth. “Can I suck you off?” he gasps.

Hermann peers over his glasses to level Newton with a look of feigned boredom. “If you’d like to,” he says. “Just don’t–”

“Make a mess,” Newton says. “I  _know_.”

He drops down to the floor under Hermann’s desk and pushes his knees apart, wider, and then presses his mouth to the front of Hermann’s slacks. The little moan he emits vibrates up, hot, from Hermann’s stomach. “Hermann,” he mumbles.

Hermann sucks in a shallow breath.

Newton works open his fly all the way, then tucks the elastic waistband of his boxers just under his bullocks. Another moment–Newton breathing on him, hot, the eager little whimpers Hermann can hear him struggle to hold in–and then Hermann feels the lovely heat of his mouth around him instead.

It’s always a bit of a struggle for him when they do this. It’s fun, of course, and Newton loves it, but Newton is so  _lovely_ , and so good, and Hermann wants nothing more than to tell him how good he is. To pet his hair while he swallows and bobs his head (faster and faster), to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth, gently, with his thumb, to urge him on gently with  _yes, Newton,_  and  _perfect, Newton_ , and shower him with praise.

He grits his teeth instead and clicks his pen, twice, until he’s sure his voice won’t crack. “Are you nearly done?” he says.

Newton moans obscenely. He pulls off to lap, messily, at the head of Hermann’s prick, then rubs it at his stubbled cheek. It leaves behind a streak of precome. “Uh-huh,” he says. 

“Be quick about it, then,” Hermann says. “I’d like to go to bed soon.”

Newton dives back in with twice the eagerness, and–judging by the return of his tiny whimpers around his mouthful–he’s started rubbing at himself again. Hermann taps his fingers on his desk to keep himself from yanking on Newton’s hair like he really wants to. “’S good?” Newton mumbles once he pulls off again, and Hermann glances down in time to watch him press the head to his slick pink lips this time. A ghost of a kiss. 

“Mm,” Hermann says, as disinterested as he can manage.

Newton’s eyelashes flutter behind his glasses. His mouth drops open, tongue hanging out, and he begins to work his hand over Hermann instead in unison with the one on himself. Precome pools in the dip of his tongue; his whines get higher. (Newton’s always been a desperate little thing.)

Hermann does not last long after that.

Ten minutes later, Newton is curled up on Hermann’s lap with a very self-satisfied and puffy-lipped smile. Sweat cools on both of their bodies. “How was  _that_?” Newton says.

Hermann leans in and places a small kiss on his lips. “Wonderful,” he says, sliding his hand up to cup Newton’s cheek (still a little sticky), “as always.”

Hermann’s sweltering under his collar. His legs feel like jelly. If he was too lazy to move before, it’s double it now; he’s not sure how he’s meant to walk back to his bunk. (Or Newton’s bunk.) Perhaps Newton will agree to sleep with him on the lab couch.


	188. “You are not wearing that to dinner with my parents.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Of Those prompts you reblogged....#27.....hhhhng that’s so dhnfjgngngkkdjdjfk
> 
> 27: “You are not wearing that to dinner with my parents.”

“Well?” Newt says, arms outstretched. “I look good, right?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Newt  _knows_ he looks good. The best he’s ever looked, he’s pretty sure–hair combed neatly, combat boots swapped out for Oxfords that he hasn’t quite broken in yet and are pinching his feet, corduroys and skinny tie for plaid slacks and a green bow tie. He doesn’t look good without reason: tonight’s the Big Night and all. After thirteen years of knowing each other, five of sharing a lab, ten seconds of sharing a brain, and a handful of months of a whirlwind romance ending in a wedding ceremony five minutes after Hermann (three sheets, and daiquiris, to the wind) tipsily proposed to him on their well-earned vacation, Hermann’s finally taking Newt home to meet his parents. Or, actually, taking his parents home to meet  _Newt_ , since they’ve insisted on coming all the way from Germany to…pat Hermann’s shoulder firmly and compliment him on not being a failure and look at Newt critically, or something like that. (Newt can’t help but envision Hermann’s parents as exactly like Spock’s.)

It’s all a little backwards, really, but at least now Newt won’t have to ask for Dr. Gottlieb Senior’s blessing to get hitched to his son, or pretend to ask. That’s just–well, yikes.

Anyway, Newt knows he looks good. He just wants to hear Hermann say it out loud, because he likes when Hermann says nice things about him out loud. He gives a little twirl.

Hermann’s at the sink, peeling potatoes in the sink for dinner–blazer and shirt cuffs rolled up around his elbows–and his reaction is not the sort that Newt had been expecting at all. Hermann sets down the peeler. He fixes his cuffs. He snags his cane, which leans against the counter, and clicks over to Newt. But he doesn’t try to kiss Newt, or get handsy, or try to talk him into a quickie while the potatoes cook or anything like that, which is what he usually does when Newt spruces up his appearance for him.

“You are  _not_ wearing that to dinner with my parents,” he declares instead, and then immediately works the bow tie off from around Newt’s throat with one hand.

Newt, a bit dumbfounded, lets him. “Why not?” he says. Hermann shoves the bow tie into his pocket and, bewilderingly, begins to flick open the buttons of Newt’s shirt. “I thought it was nice. You always say green looks nice with my eyes.”

“And it does,” Hermann says. “You look very nice. Exceptionally so.” He rucks up Newt’s shirt from his slacks and flicks open the rest of the buttons. Newt furrows his brow.

“Uh,” he says. “Then why–?”

Hermann drops his hand once he’s stripped Newt down to his undershirt. “You think I want you to look  _nice_ for Father and Mother? Really, Newton.” He scoffs. “Change at once. Those pinstripe jeans will suffice.”

He says  _pinstripe_ with a particular disdain that makes Newt automatically rise to their defense. “They’re cool jeans,” he says. Just because they’re from Hot Topic doesn’t meant they’re not cool, and the amount of holes he got in them fleeing for his fucking life from Otachi only adds to their cool factor. But that’s not the point. “Hang on. You want me to look bad on  _purpose_? I thought–”

“Obviously,” Hermann says. “Why else would I be wearing this?” He gestures to himself. He’s in his usual drab combination of too-baggy too-long tweed slacks, too-baggy sweatervest, and a too-baggy blazer to match. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. It’s hardly different from what he wore to their wedding–by Hermann’s standards, it’s formalware.

Newt finally gives up on trying to spot the problem. “Wearing what?” Newt says.

A strange look of glee crosses Hermann’s face. “Father hates this shade of grey,” he says.

“Oh,” Newt says. “Right.”

“Pinstripe jeans,” Hermann says, and, after some deep contemplation, “and that terrifically obnoxious Hawaiian shirt you bought on our honeymoon.”

Newt bought  _several_  obnoxious Hawaiian shirts on their honeymoon. He had the money, you know, and they were buy-one-get-one-free at the boardwalk shop, why not. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, babe.”

“The one with the shirtless men,” Hermann says.

Newt breaks into a grin. The one Hermann’s talking about–decorated in garish pink and orange flowers and shirtless, hunky surfer guys–has been sitting in the back of his closet for months, just waiting for the perfect occasion. Newt can’t think of an occasion more perfect than this. “Oh,  _shit_ , absolutely.” If he has the time, he’ll break open his nail polish collection and pick something equally garish to go with it.

Hermann pats the seat of Newt’s slacks. “Off to it, then, my love. Oh. Actually–” The look of glee returns, and, if Newt didn’t know any better, he might say it was a little  _mischievous_ , too. “On the subject–do you recall that sign you bought at the, ah, thrift shop?”

Newt does: it’s a cross-stitch that says  _We Had Sex In This Room_. He bought it as a joke when they were going furniture shopping for the apartment, and has threatened, several times, to hang it in their kitchen when they inevitably have guests over, but it’s currently shoved out of sight in the bottom drawer of their shared desk. A similar fate to that of the Hawaiian shirt, now that Newt’s thinking about it–waiting for the perfect time to be of use. “Want me to put it in the guest room?” Newt says.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Hermann says. God, Newt loves him.


	189. 14: “Did you ever expect your life was going to be like this?” + 26: Stargazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joshuawashinton asked:  
> hello maria... for the fic prompts could i ask for perhaps a combo of 14 & 26... :3c
> 
> 14: “Did you ever expect your life was going to be like this?”  
> 26: Stargazing

The Shatterdome is not exactly far from the rest of the city, a trip manageable by a long walk or a short bus ride away, but the light pollution never seems to be as bad out here. Especially not up on the roof. There’s a little out-of-sight spot up here that technically, neither Newton nor Hermann are supposed to know about, since technically, it’s only accessible through a door that only high-ranking j-techs have swipe access to, but Hermann is  _very_ good with computers and he doesn’t see any harm in occasionally using that to his advantage. It’s not as if anyone but them comes up here, really. And it’s not even as if they come up here that often–only when they’re not overwhelmed with work, only when it’s a nice night, only when they’re in good moods and haven’t fought all day.

It’s all for innocent reasons. Hermann just likes to look at the stars.

They have the time tonight; Newton meets Hermann at the door of his bunk with a few stiff blankets tucked under one arm and a thermos of coffee nicked from the mess hall under the other, some time after they both clock out of work, and they’re swiping out onto the roof in ten minutes.

“You could program yourself access for  _anything_ ,” Newton says as he lays out the blankets. “The good showers. The kitchen. Shit, I bet you could could get us into the rangers’ gym.”

“Why would you want to go to the gym?” Hermann says. He’s never seen Newton exercise in his life, in ways that don’t involve him hefting large tanks around the lab or scurrying about the loading dock to pick up new samples.

“I don’t,” Newton says. “But we could get in. Hypothetically.”

“ _I_  wouldn’t need the showers, either,” Hermann says. “I’ve got my own shower.”

“I’m aware,” Newton huffs. It’s a long-standing point of frustration on his end that Hermann won’t let him use the private, spacious shower that came attached to his bunk, even when they’re spending the night together. It’s one thing Hermann refuses to back down on: Newton  _always_ leaves a mess behind, from wet towels flung everywhere to stubbly hair on the sink counter from shaving. “Alright, get down here.”

Hermann settles down next to Newton gingerly, then spreads out on his back, using a balled-up blanket Newton set aside for him as a pillow. Newton himself is using his leather jacket. “I’m just saying,” Newton continues. “You could give  _me_ access to those showers. They’re so much closer to–”

“Hush,” Hermann says. “I come up here for peace and  _quiet_ , Newton.”

Newton mimes zipping his lips shut. He ruins it by talking immediately afterwards. “Right. Sorry.”

Newton’s silent as they watch the sky, but he does startle excitedly at Hermann’s side every time a shooting star whizzes by. (He confessed to Hermann once that he still wishes on them, a holdout of childhood not even scientific rationality could weed out. The notion that he’s doing so now is strangely charming to Hermann.  _Most_  of what Newton does is strangely charming to Hermann.)

After some time, Hermann feels Newton’s hand creep over top his own and Newton’s warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Did you ever expect your life was going to be like this?” Newton murmurs.

Hermann turns to face him. Their noses bump together. He’s close enough to count Newton’s freckles. “Like what?” he says.

“Like something from a fucking sci-fi movie,” Newton says, with a sharp little grin.

Hermann reaches out and tucks a short strand of Newton’s hair behind his ear. He hasn’t cut it in a while. (Neither has Hermann, for that matter.) “I didn’t,” he says. He thinks, idly, about what it’d be like to kiss Newton right now. They’ve never kissed up on the roof before, only ever in the lab (when it’s late, and they’re frustrated), or in their bunks. They don’t do those sorts of things on nights when they’re in good moods. “I didn’t expect to meet someone like you, either,” he adds.

Newton’s grin softens. “Someone like me?”

“The kaijus were certainly a surprise,” Hermann says. “But you were–well.”

He’s not sure how to vocalize what he means: the lonely little boy turned into lonely young man he’d been, entranced by a man halfway across the world who was brilliant and exciting and whose letters Hermann still keeps wrapped in twine in a shoebox under his bed. Hermann loved Newton. He thinks he still does. He never expected to feel that way about  _anyone._

There’s a fine blush spreading over Newton’s cheeks, visible even in the poor light. “Kaiju,” he corrects. An obvious deflection. “It’s already plural, man. It’s  _embarrassing_.”

Hermann wants to kiss him so badly it aches him. He swallows heavily and turns away. “Er. Sorry,” he says instead.


	190. 1. Rain + 12. Panicked/Accidental Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> axolotlesque asked:  
> ohoho, the return of prompt memes!!! i'm still blazing through your entire ao3 collection but it's v cool to actually be here for one! 12 + 1 or 26? :o
> 
> Anonymous said: Yoooo how are you feelin about number 12 from the spring prompt thing. I love love love your writing
> 
> 1\. Rain  
> 12\. Panicked/Accidental Confession

Hermann’s aware he must be a sight as he tears out onto the loading dock, parka unzipped, shirt untucked, one Oxford unlaced, and he’s aware he’s forgotten his umbrella and becoming more drenched by the second, and he’s aware, most of all, of the bewildered and frankly concerned looks being cast in his direction, but he’s in a bit of a  _hurry_ and can’t find it within himself to care in the slightest. Ten minutes ago, he was sitting in his bunk, stripped down to his undershirt and idly flipping through some old research, when he received a call that Newton–well–

“The boat,” he half-shouts, scarcely audible over the rain, as he catches a random Shatterdome worker by the shoulder, “the boat that went out this morning, has it returned?”

The man sets down the wooden crate he’d been toting. “One with the team?”

Hermann nods.

The man points further down, at the next dock over. More workers in their dark blue PPDC jumpsuits are hitching a rope from a boat to a post, and more still are beginning to unload more crates from it. “They’re getting in right now.”

Hermann wheezes out his thanks, and, cane slippery in his grasp, hauls himself over as fast as his legs will take him.

“Dr. Geiszler,” he shouts to the crew, squinting into the sheets of rain and trying, desperately, to seek out any even vaguely familiar blur, anyone who will know, “I’m looking for Dr. Geiszler, has anyone–Newton Geiszler, he was meant to–”

“Uh, Hermann,” a familiar voice says.

There, shivering on the edge of the boat under a small awning, soaking wet, reflective blanket around his shoulders, and only  _just_ visible, is Newton. “Hi,” he says sheepishly.

Hermann is struck with the overwhelming urge to slap him across the face. He settles, instead, on storming over, reaching out, and smacking his shoulder. “You’re a  _moron_ ,” he hisses. 

The events of the day were this. Hermann awoke to find the lab suspiciously empty. Assuming Newton was taking a sick day, or was hungover, or had just overslept his alarm again, he resumed his work from the previous evening and thought nothing of it. When the lab remained suspiciously empty through lunch without even a  _text_ from Newton, Hermann–purely out of worry for their research, which would suffer without Newton there, of course–marched ‘round to his bunk and knocked repeatedly on the door. Newton did not answer. Hermann debated retrieving the spare key Newton gave to him in case of emergencies, but decided, instead, to call it a day as well. If Newton was going to be so  _blase_  about work, then so could  _Hermann_ , by Jove.

Early evening, once Hermann’d already showered and dressed for bed, he received a message from LOCCENT informing him that Dr. Geiszler had tagged along with a team going out on a boat that morning at five to survey the Breach up close, and had, subsequently, fallen  _off_ the boat. Hermann scarcely waited to hear if they’d even managed to fish Newton out or not before he was out the door.

They had, it appeared, managed to fish Newton out.

Newton has the decency to hang his head, at least. “It was an accident,” he says.

Hermann swats at his shoulder again. Newton pouts. “What was?  _Deliberately_ not telling me you were going out, and in a storm at that?”

“Falling in,” Newton says, and then, in a rush, “It was windy, and I dropped my glasses on the deck and I was trying to find them, and there was a wave, and I kinda–” The noise Hermann makes–something akin to a small growl–clearly startles Newton, because he speaks even faster. “I was wearing a life vest, okay! I was only in the water for, like, five minutes tops. Tops. And I’m alive! So, no harm done?”

“No harm done,” Hermann echoes sarcastically, though his heart rate has gone down  _significantly_ since seeing Newton in one piece. He begins to fuss with Newton’s blanket. “Look at you. Didn’t they give you a  _towel_ first?” He presses the back of his hand to Newton’s forehead. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s sixty degrees out, Hermann,” Newton says, though he is shivering and leaning in to each one of Hermann’s touches. The moment the rain lets up a little, Hermann’s going to force him inside the lab at the side of the contraband space heater and wrap him up in three more blankets. Make him some tea. Now, with just the blanket from the emergency medical kit to work from, Hermann shoves Newton’s damp leather jacket off his shoulders and to take stock of the man, purposefully ignoring how see-through his usual white button up has become.

“And your glasses,” Hermann tsks, finally noticing their absence. Newton always seems strangely naked without his glasses. He tsks again. “ _Newton_.”

“I have a spare pair!” Newton says, as if it makes the loss of them, expensive as it is to find  _anyone_ who’ll fill their prescriptions in a timely fashion these days, remotely better. Hermann adds that to his mental checklist of things to do: bundle Newton up by the space heater, make him tea, and go off to find the spare pair while Newton warms himself up. Newton fidgets. “Jesus. See, this is why I didn’t tell you I was going in the first place. I knew you’d get all–”

Hermann clenches the fingers of his left hand around one end of the blanket. “All what?”

“All pissy,” Newton says. “Like you are right now.”

“I’m only  _pissy_ ,” Hermann shouts, and Newton winces, “because I thought you’d gone and gotten yourself  _drowned_ ,and that I’d never–” He shuts his mouth. His cheeks feel hot. “I was worried about you,” he continues, moderately calmer.

“Oh,” Newton squeaks. “…You were?”

“Of course I was,” Hermann says.

There’s a tense moment of silence. Then Newton reaches out, very carefully, and covers Hermann’s right hand (still clutching the slippery head of his cane) with his left. He’s gazing at Hermann with wide eyes. Hermann swallows. “Newton–”

“Hey,” a crewman says, suddenly appearing over Newton’s shoulder, “you know, you guys aren’t technically supposed to be here–”

Newton drops his hand. “Sorry,” he says. He scrambles off the edge of the boat to the concrete of the base’s dock as Hermann stands, dazed and useless. “Uh, let’s–”

Hermann shakes himself. “Let’s get you inside,” he finishes. His face feels hotter than before.

“Inside,” Newton agrees. “Yeah.”


	191. 7. Cherry blossoms + 15. Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> could you possibly do a combo of 7 and 15? I think that'd be really sweet
> 
> 7\. Cherry blossoms and 15. Tea

“Not a lot of space to sit, is there?” Hermann says. “Oh. Is she meant to be doing that?”

“Probably not,” Newt says.

Together, they watch as a young girl in bright green shorts attempts to climb the trunk of one of the trees that curves conveniently low. She falls to the dirt twice before she manages to finally latch one hand around a branch. “I used to be great at climbing trees,” Newt says. He smooths out one edge of their picnic blanket, which is really just an ancient throw blanket appropriated from the equally ancient lab couch, and begins to unpack their cliche wicker basket. “I think I got a Boy Scout patch for it and everything.”

“Did you really?” Hermann says. He seems strangely interested. Newt forgets, sometimes, that he’d grown up as little more than a lonely farmboy, and that any stories Newt has of his aforementioned Boy Scout days, or of little league softball (quit after a week), or school dances (spent lurking awkwardly in the corners on his Tamagotchi) or any other cliche shit along those lines probably sound like wildly exciting experiences.

Newt’s actually pretty sure he made the patch himself in an act of passive-aggressiveness after he’d been kicked out of the local troupe for climbing a quote-unquote  _dangerous_ pine tree he’d been told to stay away from during a weekend camping trip. He didn’t…well, _get along_  with the other Boy Scouts. He was the weird foreign kid, after all, fresh in America, and he hadn’t lost his German accent yet. Or hit his growth spurt yet. Or discovered how to successfully make friends yet. Newt’s only successfully completed one of the three. Two, if Hermann counted as a friend, but they’ve kind of glossed right over that relationship tier multiple times at this point.

“Uh-huh,” Newt says anyway. Idly, he wonders if he could convince Hermann to let Newt take him out on the water in one of those dumb swan-shaped paddle boats before they leave. Hermann wouldn’t have to do anything. Just sit back and relax and let Newt do the work. It’d probably end badly, though: Newt tried to take Hermann out for a romantic boat ride on the pond near his childhood home last year, and ended up losing both oars when a creepy-looking fish swam by and startled him. Hermann wasn’t happy.

Newt digs around in the basket a little more–pushing aside cloth napkins, several oranges, and leftover cake they planned to split for dessert in Tupperware–before sighing in defeat. “I forgot to pack the rolls, dude.”

Hermann tsks. “I left them out on the counter for you,” he says, pausing in removing his ridiculously wide-brimmed sunhat just to level a Look at Newt, “right next to the microwave–”

“I got  _distracted_ ,” Newt says. “No worries. We’ve still got this–” He holds up the jar of almond butter, “–and this.” He holds a spoon. 

Hermann makes a face and reaches for the jug of iced tea instead. Whatever. Newt’s caught him helping himself the Nutella with just his fingers in the dead of night before, and that’s  _way_ grosser than sharing a dumb spoon.

The little girl starts climbing up the tree again (where are her parents, anyway?), flower petals raining down as the branches shake wildly. It actually creates a sight that’s almost  _romantic_  at first, and Newt wants to capture it in a picture–Hermann, dressed for the spring in just linen pants and a thin shirt (collar unbuttoned), limbs in a languid sprawl on the blanket, tilting his head to gaze up at the small cascade of pink–and then it becomes less romantic, because a lot of the petals land directly in Newt’s freshly opened almond butter.

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Newt declares, peering down at them. He wonders if they taste as good as they smell. Probably not. He looks up to complain at Hermann, but realizes several of the petals have also gotten caught in the short strands of Hermann’s hair.

And, well. It’s cute.

Newt smiles. “Hey. You have–”

“Hm?” Hermann swallows a mouthful of tea.

Newt tosses the jar aside (let the squirrels have it) and reaches over to pick out a petal. He shows it to Hermann. “These in your hair.” He scoots forward on his knees and pulls out a few more, but Hermann stops him with a careful hand to his chest. Newt sits back.

“I don’t mind it,” Hermann says. He returns the smile tentatively. “You have them in yours, too. I think they’re sweet.”

(He changes his tune when he realizes they’ve also landed in his tea.)


	192. 2. “You do this sort of thing often?” + 9. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mack9duracell asked:  
> still doin prompts? #2 and #9 must meet for some PRU sarcastic funny-but-to-cover-up-the-angst fic,,,,,,,id love that so much. ur an amazing writer who makes me cry,,,,bye bye
> 
> 2\. “You do this sort of thing often?”  
> 9\. Reunion

They tell Hermann that Newton Geiszler is coming to the Shatterdome two days before he’s scheduled to do so.

It’s a calculated move. The last time Newton was meant to stop by (well over two years ago, at this point) they told Hermann a month in advance, and Hermann spent that month rearranging his office and snapping at interns to  _work faster_ and generally acting a fretting, anxious,  _excited_ nuisance. His behavior when Newton inevitably did not show–swamped with work, so sorry, missed ya! he had his secretary email later, because Newton has things like secretaries now, and Newton can’t be bothered to email Hermann himself now–was three time as worse. Hermann can’t blame his superiors for not wanting to deal with his moping this time around.

Besides, two days is enough. He arranges a last minute haircut. (And maybe a manicure.) He shaves. He digs around in his closet for the outfit he bought on the occasion of Newton’s previous cancelled visit–stylish and black, tags still attached, so far unlike his usual wardrobe it’s certain to catch Newton’s eye–and washes and irons it. He does a facemask the night before that promises to leave his skin  _glowing_. He gazes longingly at an old photograph of them for a completely normal and completely rational amount.

It’s all a bit uncharacteristic of him, really, but blowing Hermann off repeatedly for an entire decade and bumping shoulders with rich military types daily is uncharacteristic of  _Newton_ , so it’s only fair.

Newton comes, this time.

Hermann runs his mouth off for most of the way from the landing pad to his office, a horrifically embarrassing reversal of how it used to be (Newton, chatty, to a fault, Hermann, tight-lipped, to a fault), but he can’t  _help it_. He missed Newton. He wants to tell him everything. He wants–well. He can’t help but hold on to the foolish notion that if Newton is reminded of how  _happy_ they used to be, even at the end of the world, when they were at each other’s throats and in each other’s space and running perpetually on caffeine and sleepless nights, that he might want to give it all up and come back to Hermann. Hermann wants  _that._

“New coat,” Newton finally says once they’re in the elevator, and once Hermann has spent five minutes talking about a high-tech coffee maker he bought recently and how much Newton would like it. Remember when Newton tried to “upgrade” their old coffee maker in the lab and set the kitchenette on fire? (He really is running his mouth off about anything.)

He  _is_ pleased Newton noticed the coat, though. He flashes him another smile and straightens his shoulders. He decidedly does  _not_ preen. “Yes,” he says.

Newton tugs at the lapel before dropping his hand. “You still have that old green one?” he says. “Big, ugly, fuzzy hood? Smelled weird?”

“Somewhere in my flat, I’m sure,” Hermann says. He’s a bit…messier, these days. Disorganized. It’s hard to find things. He loved that coat, though, and Newton loved that coat, and he’s sure he wouldn’t have thrown it out.

“Hm,” Newton says. He doesn’t comment on the rest of Hermann’s outfit.

A few more impossibly slow seconds crawl by. These elevators take longer than Hermann realized. They’re not even halfway to his laboratory. Newton is becoming impatient already: eyes darting down to his expensive-looking watch, neat dress shoe tapping, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. Newton Geiszler in dress shoes and slacks. How strange. All of Newton is a strange sight today; he’s aged gracefully, at least, no grey hairs yet, though he’s slimmed out quite a bit (Hermann misses his soft edges), and his perpetual five-o’clock-shadow’s been shaven away completely, his thick black frames swapped for chic sunglasses. His eyebrows looked plucked.

Hermann wants Newton back, but Hermann also wants to touch Newton. He just wants Newton.

He licks his lips once, nervously, and throws caution to the wind. “It’s been so long since we were alone together,” he says.

“Nine years and two months,” Newton says.

They were living together nine years and two months ago. Hermann thought– “I’ve missed you,” he confesses. “I’ve missed you a great deal, Newton. I still–”

He drops his cane against the wall and latches onto Newton a hug before he can help himself. His eyes are wet, and sting when he blinks.

Newton startles and laughs. His hand comes to rest on Hermann’s shoulder. (He smells like expensive cologne, expensive hair product, expensive aftershave. He used to smell like stale sweat and formaldehyde back during the war. A grotesque combination, but Hermann can’t help but miss it now.) “Easy there, tiger,” Newton says, and he keeps laughing, all the way up until Hermann plants a kiss on his smooth cheek. Chaste. Nothing more than a little gentle brush of lips. Then Newton goes rigid.

Hermann pulls away at once. “I’m sorry,” he says, fumbling for his cane and refusing to meet Newton’s eyes, “I shouldn’t have–”

“You do this sort of thing often?” Newton says, smoothing a hand down his gaudy maroon vest. (Hermann had wrinkled it.) “Bring strange men up to your lab just to throw yourself at them?”

He says it teasingly, as a joke, but his grin is too sharp and there’s a strange aloof air to it that makes Hermann’s face burn with humiliation. “No,” Hermann says quickly. “I don’t. Really.”

“I’m  _kidding_ ,” Newton says. “Jeez. Relax, Hermann.”

It’s the first time in many years Hermann’s heard Newton say his name. The first time in many years anyone’s called Hermann something other than  _Dr. Gottlieb_ , really. (Newton was the only one to ever call him Hermann.) It pleases him unexpectedly; he can’t help but smile again. Newton’s changed, but, really, not  _all_  that much.

The elevator opens on the hallway outside Hermann’s laboratory. “Right,” he says, collecting himself, “so, Newton, as I was saying–”


	193. newt's first time lovemaking (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> It would be really great if you could write this prompt sometime! Newt has had sex before but he's never made love.

“What are you doing?” Hermann says.

Newt freezes, halfway finished with the buttons of his shirt. “What do you mean?” he says. “Should I not…be doing this?”

He’s not sure how sex with Hermann is gonna roll. Maybe Hermann’s the type that prefers things fully clothed. Maybe he just doesn’t want to see Newt’s chest tats. That’d be fair, if that was the case; Newt’s gotten complaints in the past about how weird it is to lock eyes with a kaiju in bed, even if one pair of those eyes are technically Newt’s nipples. “Of course not,” Hermann says. He beckons Newt closer with a thin, elegant finger, and Newt stumbles over eagerly.

He pushed Hermann onto the edge of his bed when they’d managed to get the lock open (team effort, and an impressive one at that, seeing as Hermann kept sticking his hand down Newt’s pants instead and making Newt drop his keys), and Hermann’s been watching him in a little bit of a daze since. Now he parts his thighs, grey slacks straining obviously (and boy, Newt wants a piece of that) and tugs Newt down to kneel in the vee of them. “Shirt on, then?” Newt says. He starts doing the buttons back up.

Hermann scoffs and swats Newt’s hand away. “Don’t be daft,” he says. “ _I’m_ going to be the one undressing you. Lie down.”

Newt frowns. “It’ll be faster if I do it,” he says. “Really. It’ll take me, like–”

Hermann’s fingertips skim down the opened collar of his shirt, down his sternum; he dips one thumb down low to brush at his nipple. The rest of Newt’s protests are lost in a shiver. “Oh,” he says, “oh, okay, yeah, you can–go right ahead.”

Hermann doesn’t manhandle him onto the bed, like Newt expected, like most guys have done to Newt in the past. (He’s a small guy, you know, and people seem to take that as an invitation to treat him like a tattooed rag doll.) Hermann tugs Newt’s hand gently instead, smiling at him all the while, until Newt flops down next to him, and even then he arranges Newt’s limbs in the way he deems most pleasing in a way that’s absurdly careful. Like Newt’s gonna crack otherwise.

The sight of Hermann looming above him–hair tousled, lips kiss-bitten, eyes soft and wide–is enough to drive Newt nuts, really, to make him want to pull Hermann down and rut against him until their kisses turn harsh. It’s also enough to make him shrink in a little on himself. (He rarely receives the full brunt of Hermann’s attention, even when they argue.)

For the first time that night, Newt is  _nervous_.

Hermann begins by lifting Newt’s right wrist, unbuttoning the cuff, and brushing a kiss against the veins of his exposed skin. He repeats it with the left, then kisses down Newt’s chest as he does away with the rest of the buttons there. “Newton,” he murmurs into his skin, “my dear boy–”

Hermann’s going a lot slower than how dudes usually go, and he’s lost all the urgency they had when they started this in the lab: Newt would have a few fingers in him, at least, at this point. He wriggles his hips. “C’mon. You can go a  _little_ faster.”

“I don’t want to,” Hermann says, in that same low murmur as before. He untucks the ends of Newt’s shirt and runs his palms (warm, and strong) back up over Newt’s chest. Newt shivers; Hermann notices, and bats his long eyelashes up at him. He looks a bit smug.

“Tickles,” Newt lies. 

“Mm,” Hermann says. He inches back up Newt’s body and dips his head down to circle his tongue, lazily, over his nipples instead.

“ _Oh_ ,” Newt says.

Newt’s belt buckle is next, then his corduroys (tugged down past his ankles), kisses pressed to his knees, the outside of his thigh, his hip, the small pouch of pudge hanging over the waistband of his boxers. By the end of it, with nothing left but a small layer of fabric separating his raging boner from being explored by Hermann’s pretty mouth or Hermann’s pretty fingers, he’s writhing on the sheets and tugging furiously at Hermann’s short hair. “C’mon,” he moans, “shit, please, stop teasing me–”

Hermann ghosts his lips over the front of Newt’s boxers, over the steadily gaping hole, and levels him with an amused look. “Calm down, Newton,” he chides. “There’s no need for such a rush. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“I  _am_ enjoying myself,” Newt whines, as Hermann eases himself back up the bed and at Newt’s side with a small  _ah_ of effort. “And I’d be enjoying myself more if–”

Hermann steals the rest of the sentence away with a kiss, his hand curling in a gentle grasp around Newt’s jaw. “If what?” he says, close enough for his breath to mist across Newt’s glasses. His eyes are crinkling with his smile. It’s enough to knock Newt speechless.

“Uh,” Newt says.

“I confess I’ve wanted to do this to you for a very long time,” Hermann says. He strokes his thumb over Newt’s cheekbone, then presses a kiss to the spot before continuing, “You’re very beautiful, Newton.”

“Thanks,” Newt squeaks. “You’re–pretty hot yourself.”

Hermann kisses across Newt’s face and strokes his skin some more, before one hand finally goes down and presses at the front of Newt’s boxers. Newt moans at the touch, and Hermann nips at his ear. “Mm?”

“S’good,” Newt mumbles, and rocks his hips up, desperate for more. Hermann doesn’t tease him this time. He cups Newt in his hand, rubbing gently, and kisses at his neck, his throat, behind his ear, trailing up and down until he’s nipping at his lips once more. Newt gets impatient anyway. “Come  _on_ ,” he whines, “fuck me already.”

Hermann continues to rub at him. “Is that what you’d like?” he says.

“ _Yes_ ,” Newt says. “I’ve got–fuck–” because Hermann’s squeezing at him now, “condoms’n shit in the drawer. Please–”

Hermann parts from him with a small kiss. “A moment,” he says.

“Be  _fast_ ,” Newt begs.

Hermann’s fast getting a condom and Newt’s stash of lube (that he mostly uses for jerking off these days), but not in much else. He drags Newt’s boxers down slow. He uncaps the bottle slow. He works Newt open slow, while kissing him slow, and rolls a condom onto himself  _slow_ , and by the time he’s pressing himself to Newt’s back and hoisting Newt’s leg up (slow) Newt’s about ready to blow. He pauses for a moment. “Do you mind if we–er, on our sides?” Hermann says, pink-faced. “It’s more comfortable for me.”

“I seriously don’t care, dude,” Newt pants, rubbing back against him impatiently, “come onnnn–”

Hermann–sweaty chest plastered to Newt’s equally sweaty back–hitches Newt’s leg back further, higher, and Newt nearly shivers again at the rush of cool air down there before he feels Hermann’s dick nudging at him. Everything after that goes pleasantly fuzzy. “Shit,” Newt hears himself whimper when Hermann gets the whole head inside, after what feels like an eternity, “oh, shit, Hermann, that’s  _good_ , c’mon, more–”

“Not yet,” Hermann laughs, but it’s strained, “we haven’t–”

Newt rocks his hips back, and nearly shouts at how deep he takes Hermann in. Maybe Hermann was right about it being a little too fast. “ _Ah_ –!”

“ _Newton._ You’ll hurt yourself.” Even as Hermann scolds Newt, though, his grip on Newt’s calf tightens, his breath hitches audibly, and he slides in the rest of the way only a minute later with a deep grunt.

“ _Move_ ,” Newt begs, pushing back, “c’mon, go faster–”

But Hermann’s laying very still. He’s started kissing the back of Newt’s neck again. “You feel lovely,” he breathes. The fingers of his other hand–the hand not wrapped around Newt’s leg, and braced, instead, on the bed–creep slowly over to Newt’s wrist, and for a moment, Newt thinks  _this is it_ , Hermann’s finally gonna pin him down or rough him up a little or do  _something_ , but he just curls his fingers through Newt’s instead. His lips go to Newt’s jaw. “Oh, Newton.”

To his extreme mortification, Newt’s vision suddenly goes blurry–he’s tearing up. He’s never had sex this…nice, before, is all, never had sex that makes him feel actually appreciated. And it’s with  _Hermann_ of all people. Hermann, who has a tendency to sometimes–even unintentionally–not make Newt feel too great about himself. (Though not without reason.) Hermann, who Newt is kinda in love with.

Hermann notices, of course, and Newt hears him draw in another sharp breath in concern. “Is something the matter?” he says. He drops Newt’s leg and drags his hand up to brush the wet from his eye instead. “Did I–?”

“No,” Newt says, “no, this is  _great_ , sorry.” He gives a watery laugh. “I–can I kiss you again?”

Hermann nods. In a second, his lips are on Newt’s again; Newt smiles into it this time.


	194. 4: “I can never tell if you’re hitting on me or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sarah-1281 asked:  
> Could you do number 4 from the spring prompt list?
> 
> 4: “I can never tell if you’re hitting on me or not.”

“You were very quiet today,” Hermann says to Newton at dinner.

Newton swallows his mouthful of noodles and squints at Hermann strangely. Hermann supposes it’s deserved, as the comment was a  _bit_  of a non-sequitur: prior to it, they’d been arguing about the name of a movie they’d watched together, and prior to that, they’d been arguing about toothpaste brands. “I was?” Newton says.

“Yes,” Hermann says. “You didn’t play your music without headphones, or talk to yourself. Or to me. You were just…quiet.”

Newton slowly winds more noodles around his fork. “Is that a good thing?”

“It is,” Hermann says. “I was able to get a great deal of work done.” He smiles, though it feels a bit unnatural. Too much teeth, he thinks. Should he touch Newton’s hand? It seems like the thing to do. He pats it twice. “Thank you.”

“…Uh-huh,” Newton says.

Hermann pats his hand again. “And you didn’t make any messes,” he adds. “You were very tidy. And you even washed your tools.” It’s an incredibly rare occurrence when Newton washes his tools. Usually, he simply lets them fester in the industrial sink for a few days before either A, the stench becomes unbearable and Hermann has to yell at him to do something about it, or B, Hermann almost ends up casualty when he goes to wash a mug and has to yell at him to do something about it.

Newton’s eyes narrow further. “…I did,” he says. He brings his fork back up to his mouth and shovels in more noodles.

Hermann sighs a little; Newton’s clearly not understanding him. He approaches using a different tactic. He smooths out his smile into something he hopes is more alluring and leans across the table, close enough that he their foreheads nearly bump together. “I  _quite_  like what you’ve done with your hair today,” he says, and reaches up and brushes a strand back behind Newton’s ear. “Usually you gel it up into some daft little–”

Newton swallows again. “You know, dude,” he says, raising his voice, “I can never tell if you’re hitting on me or not.”

Hermann sighs and slumps back on his bench. “Am I really that bad at it?”

“Horrifically,” Newton says. He breaks into a grin. “Don’t worry. It’s adorable. What about my hair?”


	195. 29. “This movie isn’t even that sad. Why are you crying?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tendergirlfriend asked:  
> oh.... 29
> 
> 29\. “This movie isn’t even that sad. Why are you crying?”

The night’s mostly gone off without a hitch.  _Mostly_. There was the issue of navigation, which Newt was terrible at–but only because he had dual responsibility of that and DJ, and really, music seemed much more important to him at the time–so they end up getting there a bit later than they would’ve liked and missing out on good parking in the lot. Then there was the issue of the snack bar, which was cash only, which necessitated a run back to the car and for Newt to sheepishly ask Hermann to hand his own wallet over (because Hermann is the only one between the two of them who actually carries cash), and Newt having to fiddle with the car antenna until the right station came through the stereo without static, and then, finally, after it seemed like everything was going swimmingly, or at least better than before, it started raining, and they had to pack up their blanket and lawn chairs and hurry back into the front seat of the car and start the windshield wipers.

It wasn’t in time to keep Hermann’s wool blazer from getting wet, which, yes, he wears even in May, and now–no matter that he’s shucked it off and tossed it into the backseat–the entire car smells vaguely like a wet sheep. And Hermann’s giving Newt a  _very_ dirty look, like he should’ve guessed the weather. Whatever. Last time they go to the drive-in. Or, at least, last time they go together _._

Well, maybe not: Hermann’s lost his scowl and is pushing aside the popcorn bucket to wind his fingers through Newt’s, and, with a small squeeze and an even smaller smile, says “I’m sorry for being cross.”

Newt returns the smile. “It’s fine. Thank you for apologizing.”

Hermann sniffs. Newt rolls his eyes. “And  _I’m_ sorry for getting us lost and shit,” he adds.

“Thank you,” Hermann says, visibly mollified. He turns back to the screen, which is still playing a reel of vintage commercials and announcements on a loop. ( _Let’s all go to the lobby_ , some advertisement for a mosquito repellent, reminders to shut off your headlights or be the pariah of the drive-in movie theater.) Newt forgot how  _long_ the lead-ups to movies here are; it’s literally been twenty minutes since dusk, when management switched on the projector. “What’s the film again?” Hermann continues.

Newt shrugs. It was ten dollars for a Dusk-to-Dawn quadruple feature, the snackbar is cheap and has great nachos,  _and_  he gets to possibly woo Hermann into a little retro necking (appropriate for the setting). He wasn’t overly concerned with checking the marquee. “Uh. I think the first one is about animated robots or something. Some stupid Disney shit.”

Hermann does not look impressed. “You brought me to a  _children’s_ movie?”

“Well, yeah, first movie is always a kids’ movie,” Newt says. “The good stuff isn’t until later. Which means we have plenty of time to…” He waggles his eyebrows, and moves his hand to Hermann’s knee. Those baggy tweed slacks get him all kind of riled up.

“You’re a wretched little man,” Hermann says.

“I love when you talk dirty to me, baby,” Newt says.

Hermann grabs him by his tie.

The robot movie is largely unforgettable, made even more forgettable by the fact that Newt spends most of it laying down in the backseat with Hermann giggling and breathing out little  _hush, ah, oh my_ ’s in his ear. (He’s giddier than Newt, even, and Newt’s pretty sure it has something to do with the fact they had his gross-ass black licorice at the snack bar and Newt splurged and carried back a few boxes for him.) Then Hermann moves his mouth in a fun new way on Newt’s neck, and Newt squeaks and flails a little and accidentally kicks the volume controls up to max.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says. “Damn it. Sorry. Let me–”

“No,” Hermann says, “I have it, it’s fine–”

Their foreheads knock together in their mad scramble, and Hermann accidentally bumps his knee against the seatbelt buckle and lets out a little grunt of pain at the same time Newt kicks at the car horn by accident.

“Hermann!”

“I’m  _fine._ Just–”

They make it into the front seat, somehow, and Newt manages to turn the volume down before it attracts unwanted attention from one of the employees who roam the field with flashlights, just itching to toss people out. Hermann is breathing hard. His collar is askew. “We need a bigger car,” Newt decides.

“This car is fine,” Hermann sighs. 

“One of those cars where you can fold the seats down. We could take it camping.”

“I hate camping,” Hermann says. “ _You_ hate camping.”

“Variety is the spice of–something. Oh, no!” Newt ducks down and picks up their popcorn bucket, which lies, upended, on the floor. Another casualty. “We knocked this over, too. Want me to get some more?”

“It’s alright,” Hermann says. “We’ve got other–”

“I’ll get some more,” Newt interrupts. He leans over and pecks Hermann’s cheek; Hermann’s lips creep up into a smile. “Gimme a second.”

“Shirt,” Hermann says as Newt hops out, and Newt frowns at him before realizing what he means–his own collar is askew, too, though significantly worse than Hermann’s. There’s no missing the slowly purpling hickey at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says, flashing Hermann an embarrassed grin. He shifts the empty popcorn bucket under his arm to fix it before darting off to the snack bar.

“God, it’s  _really_ raining out there,” Newt whines when he gets back. He had to sacrifice his jacket to shield the popcorn, so he just ended up all wet and miserable. Popcorn survived, though.

To his surprise, Hermann’s actually paying attention to the movie. More than paying attention–he’s actually  _engrossed_ in it. And– “Dude?” Newt says. He slams the car door shut.

The noise makes Hermann startle. He wipes at his eyes hurriedly. “Ah. Yes?” he says.

Newt looks between him and the screen: the robot and his robot friends are excited about something. Kinda cute, actually. “Dude,” Newt repeats. “This movie isn’t even that sad. Why are you crying?”

“I’m  _not_  crying,” Hermann says, but he wipes at his eyes some more. “My knee. From before. It’s, ah–”

“Uh-huh,” Newt says. “Okay.”

Once Hermann’s finished drying his eyes, he clears his throat. “In  _context_ ,” he begins, “my reaction was entirely–”

Newt pecks at his cheek again, and Hermann trails off, pink in the face.


End file.
